


Missing Pieces

by Axis II (Axis_II)



Series: The Beginning in the End [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Family, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Romance, Seekers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 06:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6069124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axis_II/pseuds/Axis%20II
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of scenes and events to fill in gaps between the end of Trespasser and the beginning of the next game (whenever that may be). No continuous story. Follows Acts of the Divine but mostly can be read as stand alone. </p><p>M for language and adult themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty Space (Cassandra/Inquisitor)

**Author's Note:**

> Bioware owns everything. Except my OC's, if I include them in this story. Not that I'll object if Bioware wants to own those too.

The rotunda of Skyhold was one of the least traversed rooms in the entire fortress. Nothing had been moved in two years. Even when Leliana and her agents were poring over every inch of the room to discover all they could of the enigma that had been Solas, they had been careful to place each item back in its original spot – not even the dust betrayed their touches. The Inquisitor had not stood in this domed chamber for many months. Usually she passed through it without even raising her eyes, intent on climbing the stairs to the library or the eyrie above, unconsciously trying to convince herself that she didn't look around the room because she was busy, because she wouldn't see anything new, because there was no point to dwelling on the past.

Now the books on the desk had been violently flung to the floor and the dust on the wood had been blasphemously disturbed with the imprint of her curved backside. Inquisitor Trevelyan stared up at the walls of the rotunda, the stark colors and gothic lines of artwork suddenly looking malevolent and foreboding, no matter the content. Each painstakingly detailed piece was meant to capture a great moment, even celebrate victories, yet it all felt so ominous now.

Her eyes traveled back to the same mural time and again: Solas' depiction of Corypheus' attack on Haven. Not just because it was one of the worst days of her life. She was always drawn to this panel because she'd sat in the room and watched him paint it. Hours on the cold stone floor, neck aching in protest from being tilted up to follow him along the scaffolding. Yet she remained, watching the deliberate movement of his hands as he forced the colors to shape and yield to his vision. He had already painted all the other climactic events in their short history together: the Breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the birth of the Inquisition, recruiting the mages from Redcliffe. . .still, the art all seemed rather narrow-minded in its focus.

_"_ _You should do a panel of me getting knocked on my ass by Cassandra or Bull. Happens a lot more often than all this rift sealing and dragon fighting drama." Eve was grateful that Solas had left out any specific imagery of her, but there was no denying that everything she did was at the center of his inspiration. This must be how emperors felt when historians started following them around with quills and expressions of painful constipation._

_"_ _The common does not need to be commemorated, Inquisitor. It is an idiosyncrasy of our world that mundane events are easily remembered but epic moments lost to time." Solas glanced over his shoulder at her briefly, specifically when he used the newly bestowed title. The solemn mage would never deign to show anything so pleasant as a smile but Eve knew there was a glint dangerously close to amusement in his eyes whenever he used the grandiose label. He enjoyed watching her wince. The formal title felt like new armor: heavy, unyielding, chafing in its strictures and dangerous in its ostentation. She needed to drag it through a bit more dirt and blood before it would feel like it suited her._

_"_ _Have you seen Cassandra fight, Solas? Mundane is hardly the word," Trevelyan scoffed, taking a sip from the flask at her side. She'd originally wanted to point out that her ass was anything but common; unfortunately, Solas would never appreciate such a joke. She liked the silence of the mage's company; it always felt like his presence created space for her to think but - Maker! - he had absolutely no sense of humor._

_"_ _The Seeker is a formidable woman," the elf agreed, touching up an invisible error, "The degree of her devotion would be frightening in anyone lacking her honor and wisdom."_

_"_ _Why, Solas, I've never heard you praise anyone so warmly. Nursing a crush, are you?" Eve teased, watching for any hints of reaction that would reveal some extra clue about the enigmatic mage._

_She had yet to even figure out if he preferred women or men, like Dorian (not the Vint specifically, they clearly didn't care for each other). There was a vague hint around the edges of his gravity that either he was still nursing heartbreak from some lost love or he just found every breathing creature too stupid to consider romantically. At this rate Trevelyan was inclined to believe he only screwed in the Fade and even then it would have to be a ridiculously intelligent demon. The elf's pillow talk probably revolved around the historical impact of some lesser-known ancient burial site._

_"_ _If someone has admirable qualities they should be acknowledged, commended even, so that others can learn from their example," Solas shot her another glance, slightly more pointed than before, "But I would hardly challenge you for the Seeker's attentions."_

_Eve felt the immediate burn of blood rushing to her skin, coloring from her collar clear to her ears. How in Andraste's name did he figure that out? She flirted with everyone. Every one. Maker's balls, she would've hit on Alexius if it bought them the mages' freedom. Surely she wasn't any more obvious in her remarks to Cassandra than to Dorian, Sera or Bull? Then again, her eyes didn't follow any of them across a battlefield the way she did with Seeker Pentaghast. In her defense: none of them had as attractive a figure or that lovely way of wiping an enemy's blood spatter off her face._

_"_ _And now I get the lecture about focusing on Corypheus and the Inquisition and the end of the world, right?" Trevelyan got to her feet and crossed her arms, turning her eyes to the massive depiction of their enemy. Why did Solas have to paint him so large? Wasn't their task already daunting enough?_

_"_ _I think you have reminder enough, Inquisitor." The mage's eyes strayed to the faint, green glow of her left hand. The simple dismissal of all awkward conversation material was typical of Solas. She still hadn't figured out if he avoided personal topics out of respect for her privacy or because he just didn't bloody care._

_"_ _At least I can ignore my hand hurting. You've gone and surrounded yourself with this madness!" Eve walked around the room, taking in each mural and the nearly obsessive amount of detail. There was a significance to each and every brushstroke, just as Solas never spoke a word that wasn't perfectly chosen to fit his meaning. He climbed down from the scaffolding, stepping back to take in the latest completed work. There was no artistic pride in his eyes. This wasn't the creation of something wonderful but an attempt to capture what was true. When he finally turned to answer the Inquisitor she could find only a lingering sadness beneath the determination in his gaze._

_"_ _You have already seen that my people do not believe in letting history vanish with words. What has happened needs to be remembered, preserved beyond the limits of one tongue. I believe it is important that the world of the future know what went on during this time: the good you fought for, the battles won." Solas made an effort at smiling but it never went beyond the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Instead he rested a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that was surprisingly comforting despite the hesitation that confessed awkwardness._

_"_ _Oh, we won did we? Corypheus sent a letter of surrender while I was asleep?" Trevelyan was completely incapable of letting the moment stay serious. This once, she imagined Solas was grateful for the distraction of her humor._

_"_ _I have yet to see you lose." The mage's hand gave a final squeeze to her shoulder, sealing his unspoken assurance before pulling away._

_"_ _Well then, damn good thing you left such a nice, big wall blank for the victory painting," Eve gestured to the remaining half of the room, walls still naked and hungrily waiting for history to unfold, "I think something in the style of the Alamarri – we can use Corypheus' blood for the red and I'll be sure to gather up a few scales from his pet lizard for you to plaster on. Could you perhaps include the Seeker giving me a kiss for reward? I'd like to start planting the idea as soon as possible."_

_"_ _I think -like everyone else- we must wait and see, Inquisitor." Solas shook his head, his sigh patient as time itself._

_Wait and see._

Wait and fucking see. Trevelyan turned to look at the final panel of Solas' fresco. No color, nothing more than the sketched outline of shapes and she could feel her eyes beginning to burn as they dragged over the confession that had been right under her nose all this time. A wolf coming out of the sky, triumphant over a dragon slain with a sword that she knew all too well. It couldn't be more obvious if Solas had just written "I'm Fen'harel and I used the Inquisition to fix my mistake."

"You ass." Eve grabbed a paint pot off the desk –the liquid long since dried to nothing but crust– and flung it at the wall. It smashed beautifully, the dead color erupting in black powder before falling to cover the shards on the floor.

"How did I know I would find you here?" The exotically clipped words lazily chased away the lingering echo of shattering clay. Trevelyan turned to the doorway as Cassandra strolled in, forsaking her usual military bearing in the comfort of their privacy.

"Because the bond we share gives you an uncanny intuition into my character and instincts?" Eve suggested, rising off the desk to greet the Seeker with a smirk.

"Obviously. It must be that. Nothing at all to do with the noise of things being flung and broken." Cassandra's eyes roved the room, finding the mess of broken clay and desiccated paint.

"Only one arm left," Treveylan shrugged, "Have to keep it strong, you know."

She'd meant it to be a joke but the sight of her lover's eyes falling to the truncated shape of her pinned sleeve reminded her that not everyone was ready to laugh about it. The Seeker stepped into her space, one hand resting against her arm just above the glaring amputation and the muscles of her jaw worked angrily as she fought for words.

"Cassandra -," Eve lifted her hand to the Nevarran's cheek, thumb dragging along the line of her face to chase away the bite of her thoughts. The touch jolted the raven-haired warrior out of her pique and she caught the Inquisitor's hand, clenching it tight as a weapon in battle.

"How are you not angrier than this? He betrayed us, used the Inquisition, hurt you-," the Seeker looked again at the injury before dragging her attention back to Eve's gaze, "You have been in here for hours since we returned but there has been only silence. The soldiers thought you were holding a vigil. The servants think you are praying!"

Despite Cassandra's attempt at serious concern, the ludicrous idea that the Inquisitor might have chosen to take solace in prayer brought an irrepressible bubble of laughter from them both. The Seeker knew –as did anyone passing too near their door at night– that Lady Trevelyan only implored the Maker when she was engaged in rather unholy activities.

"I think you're angry enough for both of us," Eve pointed out, still trying to coax the frown out of her lover's eyes, "Besides, you remember what happened the last time we both got mad about the same thing."

The Inquisitor had a violent temper of her own but it was little more than bursts of lightning compared to the constant storm of Cassandra's thunderous furies. For the most part she could swallow her rage and store it for use on the battlefield, the one place she was allowed to give it free rein. There were, however, a handful of triggers that could set her off without any hope of control until the wrath consumed either itself or everyone around her.

"We did clean up the mess." The Seeker grimaced as she recalled the incident. Given that the Nevarran spent most of her life poised at the edge of fevered anger, she was inevitably just as incensed as Trevelyan in those moments when the world turned red and deadly.

Exploitation of power, harm to innocents, unjustified entitlement, and anyone, anywhere who thought people were toys; those were the crimes that Eve couldn't stomach. (Also, though not as high on the list, those horrible little dogs that were so fashionable in Orlais). It was truly unfortunate that so many of those wrongs tended to gather along with the nobility at all the galas and fêtes she had to attend in her official capacity.

"Josephine sprained her wrist writing all the apology notes, Cassandra. Even Leliana was furious with us." Eve had been verbally ripped apart by her former spymaster only a handful of times and on every occasion she was shocked to emerge alive. Apparently becoming Divine didn't change the sharpness of her tongue. It was bad enough being summoned to the bard's nest on the topmost floor of Skyhold's tower but nothing could prepare her for the horror and shame of being dragged off a dance floor by the Maker's Most Holy.

"The woman was a monster." Cassandra refused to regret their actions. It wasn't uncommon for nobles to bring their personal servants with them to masques. Usually the higher the rank of the aristocrat, the more peons they liked to drag around in their wake. But she and the Inquisitor both felt the hairs on the back of their neck prickling when the Comtesse arrived with an eleven year old boy at her side.

"Whom Charter had been tasked to assassinate in less than a week. We just didn't happen to know that bit," Eve sighed, remembering Leliana's enraged rebuke. _'You thought I did not know? That I would tolerate such a thing?'_ It was a painful proof of just how important the redhead had been in the workings of the Inquisition. Had she only known that the Most Holy was already plotting divine punishment . . . No, she still wouldn't have been able to stay her weapon. The sight of that jeweled hand groping the child!

"Matthian is much happier serving in the Grand Cathedral. I understand he bakes wonderfully," the Seeker's dark hazel eyes softened with tones of honey and flame, "And you almost succeeded in distracting me. Is it so difficult to speak of what happened?"

The Inquisitor cursed in the silence between her thoughts. The brunette warrior had grown far too adept at understanding her strategies. The Nevarran had always been skilled at seeing through Eve's pretenses, finding the hidden truths beneath her wit. The last two years of intimacy had only made her more impossible to fool. The woman that knew her dreams by the rhythm of her breath at night wasn't likely to be deceived by such simple tricks anymore.

"Solas was my friend, Cassandra. Is. He _is_ my friend." Trevelyan forced herself to remember that nothing had changed. Solas was no different. He was more than what anyone thought but he'd never pretended to be someone else. It was only now that she and her allies could fully understand who he'd always been.

"Your friend wants to destroy our world." The Seeker stepped over to the long abandoned desk and leaned against one edge.

"No, he doesn't. Want to, I mean, but he's willing to do the wrong thing for the right reason. Haven't we seen that happen often enough? Haven't we all been there for just a split second? Maker, if I didn't have you and the others. . ." Eve frowned as she thought of the decisions she'd faced as Inquisitor. Each advisor and friend had their own opinion but it was only when she listened to them all that she found the answers between their words. What was it like to have no one helping, to have to make all the choices alone?

"He didn't have to tell me everything the way he did, Cassandra. He didn't have to save me from the mark and let me return to tell everyone his plans. I think," Trevelyan paused, noticing that when she thought about Solas her left hand itched, except she didn't have a left hand anymore, "I think he wants us to stop him. He wants us to find the answers that he can't see."

"You give him tremendous credit." The Seeker was obviously less than convinced, the line of her mouth distorting with bitterness.

Eve moved to lean against the desk as well, instinctively drawing closer to Cassandra. From the day she woke up in a cell below Haven, she'd known that staying near the Right Hand would either get her killed or save her life. She'd bet on the long odds and won, a miracle of fortune that graced her every decision in the Inquisition and left her convinced that sooner or later, her luck would run out. In Halamshiral, it almost had.

"He thought he was saving his people and instead ended up destroying their world. Can you imagine the burden? If the Inquisition failed –if _I_ failed– well, we wouldn't have survived long enough to see everything we love destroyed and everyone enslaved to corruption. Solas lived to see his world ripped apart by his own mistakes. By the Maker's holy hands, I do not think I could have survived such a thing." The Inquisitor still had nightmares of the future she'd seen in Redcliffe.

She had battled the undead, walked the Fade, nearly been swallowed by dragons, plummeted multiple times from impossible heights and been chased across immeasurable distances by demons of all forms; yet it was always Redcliffe that ripped screams from her throat in the middle of the night and woke her to a world of sweat and trembling terror. She had seen failure. Varric gutted, nothing left of him but the red lyrium devouring his dead eyes. Cassandra's limp and broken body flung aside like an angry child's toy. Leliana, beset by demons, the moment of shock in her eyes when life was wrenched from her throat. It was a reality that they'd managed to prevent and avoid but in the depth of her mind, between ration and feeling, lay the absolute conviction: it had been real.

"Perhaps that is why he chose to sleep, to escape the pain of watching the destruction of all he'd fought to save." Cassandra relented ever so slightly, the line between her brows allowing a hint of sympathy for their former ally.

"He lost everything. More even, I think, than he's admitting." Eve thought back to their conversation in the crossroads. The bitterness like ash and poison on his tongue when he spoke of the Evanuris, the hollow pain that sucked all the color out of his eyes when he mentioned their murder of Mythal. He'd loved her, in some way. It was a little hard to imagine, seeing as the only mental image Trevelyan had of the famed Elvhen goddess was a silver-haired woman with headdress like horns and a nasty habit of speaking in mysteries. Where in Andraste's sweaty small clothes was Morrigan when they needed her?

"You pity him," Cassandra shook her head in mild wonder, her own gaze still hard as tempered, blood-stained steel, "I cannot be so gracious."

"You don't have to be. This may still end with us meeting as enemies. Of course, if that happens he doesn't stand a nug's chance in a dragon den." The Inquisitor felt the familiar pull of muscles tugging at the corner of her mouth, trying to break her façade of confident nonchalance.

"Is that so? Expecting the Maker to perform a few more miracles on your behalf?" The Seeker's lips quirked as well, anticipating the amusement of whatever joke her beloved was about to make.

"I won't need the Maker. Solas isn't going to have anyone like you standing beside him." Eve wrapped her right arm around the other warrior's waist, squeezing away any distance that could separate them. She felt Cassandra's breathing hitch beneath her breastplate, the stifled sigh that she loved dragging from the Nevarran's lips when laughter wasn't tender enough.

"Did you mean it?" The Seeker was resisting the temptation of lips teasing the edge of her ear.

"You have to ask?" Trevelyan dropped her voice, finding the lower register that made her lover's eyes momentarily flutter. Cassandra had more discipline than the Inquisitor, but not more persistence.

"What you said at the Exalted Council," the Seeker clarified, turning and forcing Eve to meet her gaze, "Your adventuring days are over?"

"So it would seem. At least until I can figure out how to slay dragons one-handed." The Inquisitor's sigh was far too optimistic to be truly frustrated. Over the last 3 years she'd found that accomplishing the impossible was never a matter of 'if' but only 'when.' Logistics would be a bit difficult at first, obviously, but she had an endlessly creative stubborn streak.

"I fear that will not be long. You have already proven how adaptable you can be." Cassandra's rich hazel eyes glinted with particularly pleasant recent memories.

_"_ _Maker's damnation! I can't balance on this bloody thing at all!" Eve groaned as her left limb gave way, skidding across the bed sheets._

_"_ _I shall have to get used to having you closer then." The Seeker's breathy laughter faded into an indulgent sigh. A smile curled her parted lips as her back arched, exploring the feel of the Inquisitor's weight pressed along every inch of her body, hands pulling her impossibly tighter against slick skin._

"Sweet Andraste, I'm glad it wasn't the right hand." Trevelyan's tongue darted swiftly across her suddenly parched lips, chuckling to cover the arrhythmic stutter of a shallow breath. The amusement in the Nevarran's eyes deepened, affectionate but teasing nonetheless as she read the other warrior's mind. She straightened, not pulling free of Eve's grip but turning to face her squarely. A subtle shift at the edge of her brow, the faintest twitch in the perfect bow of her mouth told the Inquisitor that serious words were forming on the Seeker's tongue.

"If you are truly determined to stop wandering Thedas searching for trouble," Cassandra paused long enough to see Trevelyan tilt her chin in confirmation, "Then perhaps it is time for me to do the same."

Inquisitor Trevelyan was seldom caught unawares and almost never left speechless. Only Seeker Pentaghast had this damnable ability to tie her thoughts into knots that left her tongue useless. Was she actually offering -?

"Cassandra, no. You can't –I won't– it's ridic-," Eve found her mouth suddenly full of words and they slammed together on her lips until she forced them into order, "I couldn't bear it if you gave up on your purpose just to support mine."

Rebuilding the Seekers of Truth had been one of Cassandra's deepest desires for years now. Training a handful of recruits here and there, making contact with other Seekers who'd fled or been forgotten during Lucius Corin's betrayal, making the Order's secrets public knowledge; piece by piece she slaved towards that ultimate goal but it had remained bitterly elusive. The Seekers were still a broken regiment at best, an entire institution martyred to Corypheus' deceit.

"I will not. I believe our goals work in tandem, just as they always have. You shall protect Divine Victoria, the Seekers will serve the Chantry. We will both deal with the threats looming on the horizon. I do not doubt that trouble will find us, as it always has," a smirk crossed the Nevarran's lips, a tiny reminder that it was often the Inquisitor who drew danger like fresh meat in a wolf's den, "But as you said of Solas: let it find us together."

Eve's thoughts spun away in dozens of different directions at once, like a spider's web shattered by wind, coiling and twisting on itself. Arguments and answers rose up and were washed away even as she struggled to catch their words. The world was shifting beneath their feet once more. The Qunari, convinced that Thedas was crippled by the weaknesses of freedom. Fen'Harel, determined to right an ancient mistake at the price of an entire world. The Inquisition itself, carved and shaped by sheer will, now poisoned with spies and traitors and in need of a surgeon's knife to slice away dead weight. Wasn't it only right that in the midst of that chaos they cling to the one constant that had taken over the very definition of their lives? What was it Cassandra said when they spoke in Halamshiral? _The Maker himself could not take me from you._

"I suppose Val Royeaux _is_ closer to the Hunterhorn Mountains than Skyhold." Trevelyan finally caught hold of a thought and tested it on her tongue.

Once the Inquisition was pared down she could turn their Frostback base of operations over to Cullen and focus on fulfilling all those grand promises she'd made before the Council. Over the last two years politics, threats and crises constantly dragged both warriors away in separate directions. It was a rare month when they weren't apart for at least a week and often longer. What might it be like to not endure such punishments anymore?

"And to Halamshiral. Leliana is quite adamant that I begin serving on the Exalted Council as soon as possible." Cassandra didn't bother trying to hide the wince of distaste that marred her expression as she contemplated her latest responsibility. Eve hadn't been privy to the exact conversation but she had a feeling Divine Victoria had used every trick in her legendary arsenal of skills to force the Nevarran into taking a seat on the Council. The former Left and Right Hands would continue to balance the power of the Sunburst Throne - likely through stubborn argument - for years to come.

"So where will we call home? Val Royeaux, Halamshiral or the Hunterhorns?" Trevelyan finally relaxed into the other woman's embrace, toying with the shape of things to come the same way her fingers explored the folds and edges of the Seeker's belt and sash. She felt a frisson of pressure on her neck, pulling her inches closer to familiar temptation.

"Any space we two share," Cassandra easily supplied, the tender assurance gentle on her lips but armed underneath with a conviction that would break worlds. Eve knew the flutter in her breathing betrayed the sudden seizure beneath her ribs, the momentary lurch that always paralyzed her soul for the space of a heartbeat when such raw emotion passed between them. She could feel the Seeker's silent laughter flow across her lips.

"You know, I should probably be dropping to one knee and asking you to marry me now," Trevelyan enjoyed her own smug chuckle of victory when Cassandra's breath froze, "But for the life of me, I can't think of anything but a lot of terrible jokes about wanting your hand."

"That would be Varric's influence. Romantic and terrible." The Seeker's laugh wasn't silent this time, as much pained as amused.

"You think that's bad? Remind me to tell you what Sera wrote in her journal about us." Eve recalled her own spasms of loud delight when she read the elf's thoughts on why she and Cassandra needed to get married.

"Do I even want to know?" The Nevarran grimaced, clearly imagining the worst. Probably with terrifying accuracy.

"No. But it would stop me from saying the other awful jokes I have running through my mind," Trevelyan grinned. _Spare a hand? Hands down. Left/Right Hand. Upper hand._ There were just too many.

"I know better ways of stopping you." Cassandra's nimble fingers tickled the top of Eve's collar right before she leaned in, stealing the smile from her lips.


	2. Divine Comedy (Leliana/Hero)

The Hero of Ferelden studied the ice crystal hovering above her fingertips. Larger than her hand, each branch of the perfect, translucent snowflake glittered blue and gold in the late afternoon sun. She'd sometimes watched the kitchen girls preparing serviettes for special dinners, folding the cloths into confusing, intricate patterns before a sudden flick of the wrist turned the ordinary napkin into a stunning linen swan, heart, flower or other ornate sculpture. Try as she might, she could never mimic their mastery of fabrics. But with a subtle twitch of two fingers she forced the snowy crystal in her hand to swell and rotate, collapsing in and expanding out all at once until a perfect butterfly was flapping icy wings. Beats the pants off origami napkins any day.

From a frozen butterfly, Solona changed the magic once more, shaping a hawk that flew away from her hand. Hints of flame colored the sculpture's eyes as it soared up with the wind before alighting on the balcony rail, beginning another metamorphosis the moment one talon touched stone. By the time the bird's wings had stilled they had evolved into paws, a nug wrinkling its nose up at her in confusion. Then a spark of lightning hit the animal's rump, turning it into a whirlwind of exploding snowflakes that fluttered in the air before melting on the mage and the giggling bundle on her arm.

"Right, just don't try that with the real thing or your mother will skin us both," Solona warned, folding her daughter's criminally outstretched finger back into a fist. The sound of a snuffling sigh rose from under a wingback chair in the bedchamber, Schmooples II clearly agreeing with the advice. Neither he nor Boulette ever came out from the cover of furniture when the mage infant was awake.

"Schmmmpp!" The only baby ever born and raised in the Grand Cathedral clapped her hands excitedly, trying to crawl over her mother's shoulder to go find the persecuted animal.

"No, no-no. No, no, no. No." The Warden wrestled her child back into a secure hold. She vaguely recalled a time when her life involved other words but that was the one that she needed the most lately. Huge blue eyes stared up at her, innocent confusion bordering on watery heartbreak and dammit, if Solona had ever been good at ignoring those eyes she probably wouldn't have ended up inviting a particular red-headed Chantry sister to come along and help end the Blight.

"Buggeration. Right, I'll make you a deal: leave the nugs alone and sleep sound through tonight and I'll get you a new stuffed toy tomorrow. Like the fuzzy fennec you set fire to last month. You want that? Another fennec? I'm sure that damned dwarf has set up a permanent stall outside the cathedral gates by now . . ." Solona's words trailed off with her thoughts as she recalled the panic that had dragged her and Leliana out of bed because their daughter's crib was engulfed in flame. That the girl was happily crawling about trying to grab the dancing colors only meant that she burst into loud wails of protest when the fire was put out. Flame-proof toys. Someone had to be making those by now. Maybe she could get Wade to make something out of dragon hide.

"Cursing and bribery; you have truly taken to motherhood, yes?" The lilt of fond laughter whipped the Hero around, finding Divine Victoria already sweeping noiselessly across the room.

"Maman!" The excited exclamation accompanied an explosion of movement in Solona's arms as their one-year-old tried to fling herself across the room to her returned parent.

"Flaming asses!" The Warden scrambled, flailing to recapture the child in mid-air, catching her on the third somersault and yanking her back into a protective grappling hold that prevented escape, sound and probably breathing.

"Miss me, mon ange?" Leliana managed to keep her amusement to nothing more than a sympathetic smile, untangling the tiny redhead from her still hyperventilating mother. The girl flung herself happily into the Divine's arms, already babbling excitedly in the language that was part Orlesian, part common and mostly gibberish.

She tended to vacillate between the personalities of the Hero and Divine; sometimes sitting for hours in silent study of the world around her, generally with a calculating expression as she contemplated some new havoc. Other times she turned into this wellspring of laughter and conversation, spouting stories, inventing songs, exerting the brightness and charms of her voice and face to entertain and delight anyone around. She would be terrifyingly good at the Game one day.

"'Miss' is an understatement, my love. She spent three hours last night screaming for you. When she finally figured out you weren't around she flung an icicle into the wall." Solona shook her head as she approached Leliana's unoccupied side and brushed errant strands of flaming red hair away from her cheek. She leaned in to plant a welcoming kiss on soft skin but the bard turned at the last second, catching her lips completely to savor the peaceful reunion.

"I wonder where she could've learned such things?" The Divine teased with a whisper of laughter when she leaned back, eyes delighting in the Hero's small cringe of guilt. Apparently their daughter had inherited the Amell family temper along with the propensity for magic.

"Ma, maman, ma!" She also didn't tolerate being ignored. As soon as she began speaking she differentiated her mothers with her own flare for languages, flipping between the Orlesian and Fereldan pronunciations rapidly when she wanted both their attention.

"Here, ma petite héros," Leliana obligingly turned back to the tiny hands clutching at her face, honing in on the almost invisible glowing mark of her wrist, "You escaped your mama again today, yes?"

"It took me an hour and a half to track her down. I don't think I ever would've found her if I hadn't noticed Mother Bettine's robes giggling." The Hero used her thumb to brush away the tracking glyph like it was little more than a stray bit of fruit stain.

"Hmm," the Divine pursed her lips, studying the huge blue eyes that so perfectly mirrored her own, "In fairness, that Revered woman's gown is copious enough to contain half a garrison between her legs."

"Supposedly it did, before her Chantry days. But that doesn't make it any better to be found with my hand flailing about beneath her skirt trying to catch hold of this one." Solona never blushed anymore; not for anyone other than Leliana, who knew precisely how to raise a bloom of crimson from the tips of her ears clear to the cleft of her bosom. But when the 76 year old Mother from Markham looked down and saw the Hero of Ferelden on her knees behind her, trying to whisper threats to a toddler cackling in the shadows of her thighs, she had felt a familiar tingle of blood in her cheeks.

"I should think she would be most flattered." The former rogue easily dismissed the awkwardness that had promptly become the gossip on every Chantry sister's lips.

"Relieved, actually. After I told her that she wasn't having a hot flash. Little hero here was trying to ignite her shoes." Solona watched her daughter's eyelashes fluttering, lids fighting to stay open but already exhausted from the excitement of Leliana's return and lulled by the familiar comfort of her voice.

It had been the bard that sang melodies to her at night to bid her safely to dreams, or rose and chased away nightmares with gentle stories of heroes and friends. The Hero was never the only one awake for the midnight feedings, despite how she knew the other woman needed her sleep. They both lost endless hours to watching the tiny redhead drift off to sleep, each breath seeming like a miracle. The Warden could never again mock Leliana for once watching the twitch of her eyelashes while she slept, because she'd done the same dozens of times now.

"I am sorry, my love. The Exalted Council turned out to be far more complex than anyone expected." The Divine's mouth thinned into a line of apology, the edges of her eyes confessing the burdens that had ravaged her mind while they were apart.

"Politics always is. Do you want to tell me what happened?" Solona took her love's free hand and led her to the couch.

With the grace ingrained by years of training, Leliana settled onto the plush cushions as light and gentle as air, not ruffling a single hair of the head asleep on her shoulder. The Hero sat as well, her own arm supporting the weight of the toddler; she always seemed five times heavier after she passed out, probably something to do with the size of her dreams. The Divine didn't answer at once, allowing the silence and warmth and rhythmic puffs of air against her cheek to gradually soothe away the lines and worries until her smile was peaceful once more.

"No. We will be talking and thinking of little else in the months to come. For now, I simply wish to be here with you." She finally gave a subtle shake of her head. The last shards of ice in her eyes melted into tranquil warmth like summer water as she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders and draw her to lean against the taller mage.

All of Thedas would soon know what had happened, the threats that lurked both beyond their borders and under their very eyes. For now, for a few brief seconds, there was safety and comfort and happiness unlike anything either of them dared to expect. More than ten years ago, wrapped securely in each other's arms as their breath froze when it drifted too far from the fire, they had risked dreaming of a future together. There had been laughing suggestions of silk dresses, teasing descriptions of satin sheets, trembling whispers of an imaginary home that threatened to vanish if either of them clung too close to the idea. Nothing they dreamed of could've prepared them for this reality. Solona could feel the conflicted war of gratitude and disbelief in the barely escaping sigh that parted Leliana's lips. She knew the plague of fear for all they had that wrestled against a fearless willingness to fight to keep it. It was impossible to find the balance. But that was probably for the best. Balance allowed stagnation. Threats and dangers and something worth living, fighting and dying for was what carved their path and kept them pressing ahead. Plus, it made for better stories.

"Did I tell you Varric brought us a gift to Halamshiral?" Leliana must have sensed the silent turn of her Hero's thoughts.

"Oh, yes?" The Warden felt suspicion begin playing along the hair at the back of her neck.

"It is his first ever book for children." The Divine offered painstakingly slow elaboration, voice humming with amusement as she dangled the teasing details.

"Oh, no." Solona's eyes winced closed. This was not going to be good. The dwarf was sweet, fun, loyal, brave and hilarious. But he was also Hawke's best friend and as such couldn't be trusted with a deck of cards, bottle of liquor or word of truth.

"It is called 'Where Is My Ship?' He is most eager to hear our opinions." Leliana was no longer trying to contain her laughter, a throaty chuckle rolling out like a purr of indulgence.

"Please tell me it isn't illustrated," the Hero groaned, letting her head fall back against the edge of the couch. Varric + anything to do with a ship = only one thing. Person, actually.

"Fully. Apparently he even convinced Isabela to pose for some of the best. I thumbed through it on my return journey and the likenesses are excellent. However I must confess: I do not recall her ever wearing so much clothing." The Divine's accent could curl her words with the same smirk that had to be gracing her lips.

"That, my love, is because you prefer to remember her without any at all." Of course, Isabela naked wasn't so much a memory to be recalled as she was a waking dream that could suddenly fill the mind without warning and chase away all rational thought for some minutes. Particularly if it happened to be her mouth that coaxed its way into your concentration.

"As do you, do you not?" Leliana's free hand rested on Solona's thigh, five pinpoints of heat quickly fanning to spread along her skin.

"Right, I think I'd better preview it. To be sure it's safe for children." The Hero cleared her throat, a mixture of desire and guilt cloying on her tongue.

"An excellent idea. Perhaps we can read it together tonight, yes?" The dulcet laughter was rich with lingering promise.


	3. Where Is My Ship?

**"** **Where Is My Ship?"**

_(A tale for sailors and sprogs)_

By: Varric Tethras, Viscount of Kirkwall,  
Merchant Prince, Famed Author, and General Nuisance.

Fully Illustrated: 1 silver  
Signed: 5 silvers  
Edited: you can't afford it.

"Where is my ship? the captain asks  
"Where is it?" she demands  
Sharp rocks like spears between her toes  
Her smalls all full of sand.  
The coast stands grey and empty  
Horizon cold and bland  
The sea is laughing at her  
For she is stuck on land

"Is that my ship?" the captain slurs  
It has mast, prow and sails  
Ropes and ladders, an empty helm  
She must only grip the rails.  
Rushing forward to board the deck  
She hits the tavern wall.  
Captain's passed out on the floor.  
Bollocks! – She made the painting fall!

"Is that my ship?" the captain wonders  
A figurehead she's spied,  
Carved in shapely female form  
To cut the harshest tide.  
But it's Andraste cold in stone,  
The Captain nearly spits:  
"The Maker Bloody keep you,  
My ship had better tits."

"Is this my ship?" The Captain groans  
Caught between drink and dreams.  
She recalls the taste of ocean brine  
And creaking wooden beams.  
"Not my ship," sighs the captain  
Her corset nearly tied.  
The sea is salty but not warm  
Waves don't cost a gold to ride

"Is this your ship?" The Champion asks  
Sweetly offering a prize:  
A vessel perfect and superb  
If miniature in size.  
"Close enough," the captain smiles  
Facing eyes that shame the sea  
Her stormy heart's now settled  
Once more feeling free.

"Here is my ship," The captain knows,  
"This will carry me far and wide."  
The sea is a grand adventure  
But love has a stronger tide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist.  
> This is actually a small tribute to "Is That My Cow?" by Sir Terry Pratchett. His passing last year robbed the world of a genius.


	4. The City of Chains (Isabela/Hawke)

_"_ _You mother-sucking, whoremonger piece of Maker's bloody shit!"_ The loud curse didn't even interrupt Aveline's perfectly militant stride. She did, however, mentally review the oath. Four expletives in a single insult; Isabela was in truly rare form. And when the Queen of the Eastern Seas was swearing like that there was only one possible cause. Aveline found her in the harbor gate house.

"Hawke, what are you doing?" The redhead demanded as soon as she saw her friend leaning ever so casually against one wall, playing with a deck of cards.

"Trying to figure out that trick Varric does with the Angel of Death. I swear he palms it for the entire game until he wants it to come up and for the life of me I can't figure out when he lifts it. Smart money says on the shuffle but he doesn't always have the deck," Hawke mused, cascading the cards into her hand in rapid fire with a sound like a fan snapping open.

The Champion was clearly in a mood to play games. _It's too early for this._ Aveline's eyes started to roll heavenward but abruptly shot back to the horizon, gauging the morning sunlight. It _was_ too early for this. The guard captain knew her friend's movements better than any criminal, con-man or killer in Kirkwall. (She had to; Hawke caused far more chaos than all those other amateurs.) The Champion was seldom out of bed before mid-morning if she could help it, only resentfully rising at dawn when there was specific work to be done. Right now her typically tousled black hair was even more erratic than usual, sticking up in odd directions like the feathers of an offended crow; a style redolent of abandoned pillows and panic.

Despite the smug, patient humor glittering in Hawke's eyes there were also shards of threat and irritation. Whatever had roused the woman from bed so early weighed on the edges of her smile. Not that she'd ever admit it aloud; her cryptic, cynical smirk was completely unyielding.

 _"_ _Andraste skin you alive and use your filthy hide for her blood rags!"_ Isabela's fury continued unabated, reaching across the harbor to stab angrily in their ears.

"Fighting again?" Aveline sighed, leaning out the window to observe the raging pirate admiral storming back and forth on her ship's deck. The guard captain jerked back, nose barely avoiding the dagger that sailed past her face and stabbed in the far wall. Three others were all still embedded in the wood, deep enough to eat through bone if they'd struck flesh.

Hawke and Isabela argued constantly, a language of bickering interspersed with ribald humor and licentious suggestion that left everyone around them terrified, aroused and deeply confused. Genuine fights, the ones that cut a swathe of destruction across Kirkwall -and often into neighboring countries– had happened only a handful of times, each leaving brutal scars on skin, psyche and city. The two women carried enough baggage between them to outfit an Orlesian luggage shop; it was inevitable that the occasional spark would trigger conflict.

"Dammit," Hawke stalked over to the wall and ripped the daggers free, "I gave her this one as a gift last year. Look what she's done to the tip! It'll take days to get an edge back on the bloody thing."

"If you two just talked properly instead of playing these childish games!" Aveline had (unfortunately) been present for every single one of the couple's major fights. She was usually tipped off by panicking neighbors and injured bystanders.

Starting with No I Love You's, through classics like I Never Asked You to Kill an Arishok/Castillon/Army of Antivan Raiders, to the unforgettable I'm Sorry Your Mother Was a Bitch (which was the most double-edged sword either of them had ever used in a fight), Aveline had heard them all. Her personal favorite was Don't Kill Him/Did You Have to Kill Him/I Thought You Bloody Killed Him; guaranteed to come up at least once a year. The stalwart Fereldan would never say as much out loud but she was deeply grateful that Varric was also around for all those fights. Left to her own devices she would've chained both women together and left them to rot in a cell until they made peace or at least a very noisy, libidinous truce. The dwarf had a magical ability for getting them to see sense.

"Hey, Admiral," Hawke leaned out the window, her taunting voice carrying on the wind over Isabela's oaths, "You'd better heave-to! Those chains are scraping the tits off your figurehead!"

Varric, unfortunately, wasn't here. And early morning Hawke was even less reasonable than the regular version.

 _"_ _Hawke, you boil on a bastard's backside! Suck the Flaming Sword!"_ The Rivaini sailor's loud curse was almost as creative as it was crude. After nearly fifteen years Aveline was _still_ impressed by the woman's breathtakingly diverse vocabulary for insults. As well as Hawke's absolutely obdurate refusal to be fazed by them. The woman had to have some dwarf in her blood.

"We aren't actually fighting," the Champion turned back to her oldest friend, a mirthless chuckle punctuating her explanation, "We'd have to talk in order to start a fight and she decided it would be simpler to just try to flee Kirkwall before I was awake."

"So your solution was to close the harbor," Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to hear her own thoughts over the noise still raging from the docks, "How did you even get the chains up?"

"A good friend loaned me her gift." Hawke smiled as she pulled an ornate key from her belt, twirling it in the air so that the jeweled handle fractured sunlight around the room. The guard captain recognized it instantly. She vividly recalled Bran Cavin coming back from Halamshiral and complaining to anyone who would listen that Varric was handing out keys to the city like pints at the pub. She'd assumed his hysterics were just another manifestation of his many control issues. After all, the Inquisitor could hardly disrupt Kirkwall's economic lifeblood if she never set foot in the city, right? Clearly, she'd underestimated the woman.

"I didn't realize Comtesse Trevelyan had visited." Aveline tried to remember every report she'd seen on her desk in the last month. There hadn't been the slightest whisper of a visit from the Inquisition. News of the Inquisitor and her followers was automatically red flagged; along with any mention of Qunari, red lyrium, Crows and a handful of other threats to civil order.

"We bumped into each other in Jader and had a few drinks," Hawke's eyes fogged with pleasantly vague recollection, promising that 'a few drinks' had likely been the entire stock of a hapless barkeep, "She thought I might be able to make use of her token of esteem."

"Inquisitor Trevelyan gave you her key so you could play with the harbor chains?" The redheaded warrior truly wished she couldn't believe such a turn of events but it seemed all too likely. The Ostwick noble had that hint of anarchy around the edges of her image, resentment for her title and its inherent respectability. There was the constant suggestion that, despite being revered as the Herald of Andraste, she was never more than three breaths away from dancing naked on a dead man's back. Even with a Seeker at her side.

"Actually, she said it was in case I had any trouble keeping Kirkwall's 'unruly elements' under control." The Champion's eyes darted towards the unruliest person to ever set foot on Free March soil.

_"_ _Maferath's balls! I'm going to put your eyes on sticks in a demon's cocktail!"_

It would take more than a few thousand pounds of chains to control Isabela.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you always say Isabela was free to come and go as she pleased?" Aveline had never been able to understand the bizarre relationship between the two rogues but she knew one thing for sure: there was an absolute pact of devoted non-commitment between them.

"Which she did for years. Nightly." The Champion winked, a deviant smile twisting one corner of her mouth with memories. Aveline cringed, recalling the many times she'd patrolled Hightown after midnight and seen an upper window of Amell Manor open to disgorge a barely dressed pirate. It wasn't just seeing Isabela with her corset hanging open that was so scarring, it was the way the damnable woman always met her eyes and smiled before swaggering away with fingers in her mouth.

"And now you're suddenly trapping her entire ship and crew in the harbor. What in the Maker's name is going on, Hawke?" The captain was rapidly losing the last of her patience. There were real crimes being committed – albeit less with Isabela's crew indisposed - she couldn't waste the entire morning officiating a spat. Damn Varric for being made Viscount, now he was too busy to solve these problems with a drink and dirty joke the way he always used to.

 _"_ _Hawke, get your miserable slapped-ass face down here so I can kick your bloody teeth in!"_ The pirate's latest volley married abuse and invitation.

"Excellent, sounds like she's ready to be reasonable. Shall we?" Hawke clapped her hands together briskly and marched from the control room.

"Why do I have to go with you?" Aveline followed, a begrudging reluctance dragging her usual military gait.

"Because I'll need someone to fish me out of the harbor after she throws me overboard." The Champion laughed, shrugging off the very real threat.

 _That's Hawke all over, isn't it?_ The Fereldan warrior sighed as she studied the woman's back. Fifteen years and the raven haired Champion had never lost the swagger in her step, the languid ease that announced she was just as comfortable engulfed in the piss and whiskey of a Lowtown tavern as she would be on the marble dance floors of a king's palace. Ideally, she'd be engulfed in whiskey on the marble dance floor; with the very real possibility of pissing on a king later. Some royalty . . .

"Good luck, mate." Brand swept past them, giving only a passing nod of condolences to both women before he vanished below deck. The entire crew had taken cover and hurricane Isabela was suddenly bearing down on them, large as thunderheads and wilder than any storm.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't cut your fist off and shove it up your ass so you can sod yourself across the Fade!" The pirate's fuming threat was more controlled than her shouted blasphemies, the glint of obsidian daggers in her eyes sharper than any weapon she'd thrown.

"Because there wouldn't be room. Aveline's got her boot so deep up my backside I taste steel every time I sneeze." The Champion folded her arms, smirk too stubborn to budge in the face of any fury. The smug expression was solid though, too much like a mask; that cocky half-grin was her most trusted armor and she wore it now like she was expecting battle.

"Nice try. By now even the ginger tower knows your ass is mine." A molten amber glare danced momentarily towards the guardswoman, a scant trace of humor gracing the edge of her frown.

"Don't get jealous, 'Bela. You're the only woman for me but you know she came along first," Hawke teased, skillfully drawing more of a smile from Isabela's stubborn lips. Aveline clenched her jaw, biting back any rebuke over getting dragged so unwillingly into the conversation. She could see the fledgling amusement beginning to curl Isabela's mouth, replaced with a forceful scowl the moment she realized her slip.

"You can have her, Big Girl. Just as soon as I can sail out of this shit-storm city." The Admiral stalked away, bracing her arms on the railing to gaze in the direction of the open horizon; conveniently shielding her face until she could marshal her expression.

Aveline could see the muscles in her shoulders coiling with ill-suppressed tension. Hawke carefully followed the sailor, stopping inches away. There was a contained frustration tight through the length of her frame as well; an instinctive desire to reach out and touch the seething pirate held barely in check by pride. Just what were they fighting about this time?

"I'm not letting you leave like this, Bela." Kirkwall's Champion could issue orders that would rally an army, shout battle cries that curdled the blood of enemies, whisper flirtations that made virgins of either gender swoon and salve wounds with a kind word or laugh that chased away pain. Aveline wasn't sure she'd ever heard this voice though; slow and soft, hesitant, ever careful of the line between weak and wishful.

"You swore you'd never do this, Hawke." Isabela turned around, arms folded as if holding in an imminent explosion. The growling anger in her voice couldn't disguise the note of betrayal, dropping in tone and volume until the sound of her words barely covered the raw emotion underneath.

"And you promised you'd never run again." Hawke's own reproach echoed her lover's tone, shades of regret like emotional bruises. Trapped met abandoned; pasts that would've ruined any chance for happiness if they weren't both so damned good at living in the present. Isabela unfolded her arms, deliberately reaching out and gripping Hawke's belt to drag her closer.

"I'm not running," she corrected, closing the space between them as she murmured the reassurance, "I just thought I'd take a few jobs, spread my sails, get some salt on my skin again."

"Conveniently missing the entire banquet and leaving me to make excuses." The Champion's smirk softened as a bronzed thumb brushed against her cheek, the familiar touch their first hint of truce.

Banquet. Was that what this was about? Isabela caused more havoc crashing parties than ships, what possible soiree could have her fleeing like a routed army? Aveline ransacked the memorized reports once more, recalling that there was a massive fete scheduled in a week's time, some visiting dignitary . . .

"With your silver tongue? No one will even remember that I wasn't there." The pirate smiled, wrapping both arms around Hawke's shoulders as she eased into a different battle tactic. Threats and intimidation never worked on the Fereldan rogue, she was too accustomed to Isabela's temper and dramatics. But she was entirely defenseless against another -friendlier- form of attack.

"I think they'd notice, Bela. You're the guest of honor." Hawke was already beginning to melt into the skilled fingers toying with her hair. Strong as iron in a fight, the woman crumpled like cheap fabric when a certain Rivaini's lips were close enough to kiss.

"Even that title sounds like a nightmare! I wouldn't be caught dead a hundred feet from such a thing. Unless you include Honoré – he was a lovely painter in Wycome. Such a gift with breasts," Isabela recalled fondly, the purr of her laughter teasing against Hawke's mouth.

"Then he must've been enraptured when he saw yours," the Champion's fingers drifted along the sailor's open collar, enjoying the fluttering sensation of a stifled sigh against her cheek, "But you still have to go the party."

"Sure about that, sweet thing? Don't you want to keep me all to yourself?" Isabela continued playing expertly along the frayed edges of Hawke's control, her tongue teasing around the words as skillfully as the sensitive curve of an ear. When it was Will versus Wiles there was only one possible outcome:

"Maker's damnation, slattern!" Aveline's patience exploded, "Have you ever won an argument without resorting to tawdry seductions?!"

"Ooh, someone's been reading Varric's serials. Keep your knickers on, Man Hands, I'm just rewarding Hawke for seeing reason." The pirate favored her lover with a particularly lush, pouting smile. At least her tongue was back in her mouth.

"You're using sex to get your way, whore. What would you have done if she were a man?" The guard captain would later blame her mistake on the early hour, the unusual circumstances and too much stress. But it was still a ridiculously stupid mistake.

"What do you think, sweets? Should I tell her about our toy box?" Isabela's throaty chuckle was a wicked taunt, reveling in the sudden blush that devoured the redhead's cheeks.

"A man who didn't care for women! What would you have done if Hawke were a man that preferred someone like Fenris over you?" Aveline hastily amended herself, cursing between her thoughts.

"I'd have asked to watch, obviously," the sailor's eyes drifted off as her mind toyed with the fantasy for a moment, then returned to the present, "And when that got boring I would've seduced Bethany."

"Thank you, Aveline, for bringing up at that subject." Hawke groaned, screwing her eyes shut to chase away her own nightmarish imaginings.

"Don't be prudish, sweet cheeks. I just wanted to teach her a few differences between men and women. Every girl needs to make an informed decision, after all." The pirate was truly enjoying herself now, back in her depraved zone of comfort.

"Isabela -," the Champion began to scold but was interrupted.

"I think she's right," Aveline seldom had the pleasure of rendering both women speechless and she took a moment to savor their matching stunned expressions, "The slattern can hardly be mentioned in the same room as honor, let alone the same sentence."

"Big Girl, you treasure!" Isabela broke into a melodiously delighted laugh, "Now, can't you write that up as an official statement? We could send it to the ambassador with our apologies and be halfway to the Amaranthine before the seal is cracked."

"Bela, you met Ambassador Montilyet. She still has connections to send the entire Inquisition after us. Plus, she'd probably do something horrible like pretend not to be hurt. I'm not going to be the one that deals with Seeker Pentaghast or the Divine Nightingale when they find out we made their favorite diplomat cry." Hawke shook away the very idea. There were a few enemies/allies that the Champion had determined to never cross. The former Left and Right Hands were at the top of the list; no one wanted to know what happened when they both became fists at the same time.

"Flaming balls! It was all just a wretched misunderstanding!" Isabela groaned, sliding away from Hawke to lean against the deck railing, shoulders slumping into the sullen posture of defeat.

"I've tried to explain that to Josephine but she doesn't seem to care. The family is determined to thank you for saving Yvette." The Champion matched her position, wrapping one arm comfortingly around the reluctant heroine.

"I had a grudge to settle with Vincenz! How was I to know he'd taken some girl hostage in his cabin? Bloody little prick." The sailor bitterly cursed her fellow pirate.

"Not a hostage, really, since they were trying to elope," the taller rogue pointed out, "Either way, the family was delighted to have her returned with her virtue completely intact."

"I should think shocked as well." Aveline had finally managed to slot all the clues together into a single completed puzzle. Unfortunately, the picture revealed was one of Admiral Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas, performing a noble act on behalf of helpless innocence. A work of pure fantasy, obviously.

"Not for want of her trying, Big Girl, she was after anything in pirate's breeches." The sailor's chuckle was equal parts amusement and annoyance.

"Good thing you don't wear any then." Hawke's hand moved to one bare thigh, tracing lightly over the dark skin exposed between black leather boots and her white chemise.

"That does usually make it easier," Isabela leaned closer, coyly shifting so that the scant hem rose even further, "Unfortunately, she wasn't my type."

"Oh dear, she wasn't breathing?" Aveline feigned concern. Hawke's mouth twitched, teeth biting into her lower lip to keep from laughing.

"Ever seen a virgin trying to play seductress? It's rather like watching a fennec try to mount a bear; entertaining for a bit and then just sad," the pirate shook her head, despairing for the innocent girl's utter lack of sensual prowess, "For three days I couldn't take two steps without her swooning in the middle of the deck. You know she even tried to use some of Varric's lines?"

"Bloody Maker! The ones you gave him?" Hawke finally surrendered to laughter, recalling the night they stayed up trying to invent terrible dialogue for his Raiders serial. A lot of whiskey and cursing went into that chapter and all of three them were passed out 'til noon, chuckling in their sleep. Aveline knew because she had to wake them up after Bran had a hissy fit all over her office.

"'You could shiver my timbers,' and 'keelhauling sounds fun when you say it.'" Isabela mimicked the breathy, dramatic inflections of Varric's damsel in distress, tongue darting over her lower lip and paralyzing Hawke with a predatory gaze through her lashes.

"Well, it does. Especially when you say it like that," the Champion hastily agreed before cocking a suspicious eyebrow, "Are you sure you didn't play with her at all? You do so love corrupting innocents."

"I'd sooner be groped by the Battering Ram's brats." The sailor scoffed, tossing a wink and smile to Aveline. The guardswoman's own face softened affectionately, recognizing the ring of utter bullshit beneath Isabela's laugh.

She and Donnic had put off having children longer than any of their friends expected, so when they finally started a proper family the universe decided to make up for lost time with twins. They were rambunctious, stubborn, loud and adventurous, with ginger hair to match. And they were completely devoted to Isabela. They glued themselves to their favorite pirate anytime she walked in the door and she pretended to hate it for hours.

"Admiral Isabela of the Raiders, Pirate Queen of the Eastern Seas, passing up the chance to ravish a helpless young noblewoman! Perhaps you can change after all." Aveline seldom voiced any approval of the Rivaini sailor, let alone commendation. But it was worth it to see the horror that filled Isabela's eyes.

"Andraste's flaming tits," the pirate covered her face with one hand, moaning like she'd been stabbed, "This is going to ruin me, Hawke. My reputation might as well be sunk with the last ship. And it's your damn fault!"

"My fault? You went out there to gut Vincenz with a rusty knife and spit on his shriveled dick –your exact words, my love– I stayed here and said have fun. I didn't know anything about this Montilyet girl until I got that letter from Josephine!" The Champion protested, clinging to what little innocence she could claim. Which, in Aveline's opinion, had never been much but the remaining shreds completely evaporated the day she met Isabela.

"Your fault!" The Admiral repeated, "It's no fun seducing blushing young ladies without you around to join in. They fumble and stammer and just about pass out before they have their knickers off. It's too much work getting all those bloody layers off and then they just end up snoring instead of returning the favor. Almost as bad as the men. You, though," Isabela's lips curled into a wicked smile, "You're always a sure thing."

"I see. So you weren't being noble and protecting her virtue, you were being selfish and lazy." Hawke nodded as the realization became clear. Isabela had her own unique brand of foresight and she could be absolutely ruthless in her practicality.

"Naturally. Should we try to explain _that_ to the Ambassador?" The sailor's sculpted brow arched up into a graceful challenge.

"I have a better idea," the dark haired Fereldan wrapped both arms around her lover, molding soft curves against her armor, "We'll go to the banquet, let the Ambassador and her family flatter you for the evening, praising you as rescuer and heroine. Then we get young Yvette somewhere more secluded and see if she's as keen on champions as pirates."

"I _adore_ the way your mind works, sweet thing." Isabela grinned, wrapping long fingers around Hawke's neck to pull her down for a hard, heated kiss.

Aveline looked away, counting the number of ships trapped on either side of the chained harbor. _Two caravels, a barge, that frigate is probably escorting the brigs . . ._ The noise of leather and metal scraping against each other nearly drowned the sound of wet lips and small sighs. _At least fourteen ships, probably half a dozen more small fishing boats and dinghies all stuck . . ._ A sharp gasp tore through the guard captain's pained discipline, yanking her eyes back to the two women with every intention of shoving them both over the railing. Fortunately, she wouldn't have to because Isabela had finally stopped devouring Hawke's mouth.

"There is one other problem though, sweets." The pirate was noticeably short of air, licking her lips as she fought to even her breathing.

"What?" Hawke's voice was slow and heavy, confused by Isabela's erratic charms.

Without warning the Admiral broke away from her Champion's embrace and with one deft flick of her wrist sent the woman over the edge of the ship. Hawke didn't even have time to curse before she hit the water, dropping below the surface for several long, worrying moments before she burst up once more.

"You owe me a new figurehead!" Isabela announced, a smug smile of victory beaming down on the splashing rogue before turning to resume command of her ship. Even if she was an admiral, Isabela was still a captain at heart.

Aveline had rushed to the railing the moment Hawke went over, terrified that her friend might have been dragged under by the tide. But her raven head was safely above the waves and despite the fact that she was treading water, the Champion was grinning ear to ear. A crazy, satisfied, utterly typical grin.

"Told you! Now get me out of here, this shit will rot my armor!" Hawke laughed. Because that was what Hawke did.


	5. Widdle (Sera/Dagna)

The heavy iron door stood inconspicuously between the many shops of Val Royeaux's market square. There were no windows full of brightly colored goods or tempting treats, no merchant happily bidding customers to come see wares with flattering invitations or perfumed assault. In its own unique and silent way, the door was advertisement enough to what lay within. Each time Varric passed it on his errands in the Orlesian capital (one of his few chances to get away from Bran and that incessant stack of paperwork) he noticed an additional clue. And he passed it a lot.

On his way to find a breakfast that didn't include runny eggs he spotted the emblem in the upper right corner of the door, identifying it as belonging to the Merchant's Guild. Passing by to visit a local book trader and check on the sales of "This Shit is Weird" (phenomenal, of course) he caught the fine detail on the heavy iron: subtle steel decorations that must've taken days to temper. There was a spring in his step when he passed by the door a fifth time -noting the faded blood stain that denoted a trap stone- but that was because getting the upper hand in bargaining with an Orlesian Dowager is always exhilarating. To be fair, convincing her to get her bastard nephew out of Kirkwall wasn't going well until he revealed the letter from Lady Elegant. If Divine Justinia V could have two Hands, and the Inquisitor herself a spymaster, then he could bloody well make use of a social-climbing poison peddler with a penchant for perfectly timed scandal.

Passing the discreet shop a sixth, seventh and tenth time, he spied the strategically placed runes, noted the coolness of the metal even in direct sun, realized that even though noise came from every side of the Summer Bazaar there wasn't a single sound from behind the heavy iron. Finally he stopped and studied the pattern of the ornate filigree, eyes tracing the interlocked pattern of wheels and gears, too mathematical in their precision for Orlais' usual, florid, artistic tastes. He scrutinized all these details as though he hadn't seen them dozens of times before.

"You looking for a new door, then?" A bemused voice called from above the shop, blonde hair emerging from the roof's shadow, "Cause you're staring at this one like it's got nudy pictures on or something."

"Buttercup! You sneaky little minx. Stalking me now, are you?" Varric broke into a wide grin as the elf dropped from her perch to exchange hugs and punches in greeting.

"Don't be daft. We both know I prefer dwarf chests with more curves than curls." Sera laughed, pointing to Tethras' open shirt collar and his now infamous blonde fur. Rumor had it that Maryden had composed an epic ballad to Varric's chest hair, which never got sung because it was too long.

"Right, though the 'dwarf' part is a bit different. Always thought you'd end up with a Qunari. Bigger and badder and all that." The dwarf still had trouble picturing the maniacal archer with Skyhold's arcanist, but he had even more trouble not laughing every time she talked about 'Widdle.' Only love created endearments that ridiculous.

"Don't be an arse, only men get hung up on size. And you're being dodgy. You've been skulking past this place a dozen times today like some rookie burglar planning a job." Sera rested a hand on the doorframe like an old friend.

"Thanks, Buttercup. I think that little ego boost is my cue to call it a day and curl up in a nice warm bottle." Varric shook his head, wondering if it was possible he'd lost his touch or the elf was just that good at spotting suspiciousness. Red Jennies, the eyes no one else sees.

"Come on! You can't just give up. You're here, right? She's here, yeah? Just go in and say howsit and see if she's up for a bit of nug-bumping. Not like you can die for saying hello." She had grabbed his sleeve and refused to let go, tugging futilely at the stout bulk of his arm.

"Sometimes it's hard to know," the dwarf chuckled beneath his breath but surrendered just the same. The heavy handle turned under his fingers without a sound just before survival instinct had him diving to the side as the metal swung open. A hammer sailed through the entrance and bounced off the inside of the door, nearly smashing Sera's toes when it hit the cobbles.

"Right. Uhm," the elf picked up the impromptu weapon, adjusting her assumptions, "Did something off happen between you?"

"Off?" Varric could barely contain his snort of laughter, "Sure, I probably forgot to write a love letter after our last visit. Hard to remember pleasantries like that when I'm busy scraping her family's hired assassins off my ceiling."

"Stone shit! I told you those runes were too strong!" An irritated mass of leather and soot stomped to the doorway, grabbed the flung hammer from Sera's stunned hands and stormed back into the workshop.

"The Void they are. It's the guide wires! They're too tight!" The rebuttal from inside was instantaneous and loud.

"Ladies, it was an accident!" A third voice was desperately trying to restore order. Varric and Sera slowly eased through the open doorway and into the chaos within.

"They have to be that tight on gears this size, otherwise there'll be constant slippage." Bianca slammed the hammer down on a bench and grabbed half a dozen other tools instead. The famed smith's irritation radiated off her like the forge fire filling the room with heat. Not that she seemed mad with anyone specific, her worst rages were the ones focused on uncooperative machinery.

"What if we used a larger sprocket? Would that adjust the tensions?" Dagna joined her fellow dwarf in rummaging through a massive cabinet of parts, flinging unacceptable options aside. Varric noted that Sera wasn't even daring approach the two task-obsessed artisans. Anyone who'd been on the receiving end of a swage to the head knew not to interrupt craftsmen at their work.

"Seriously, you two! The hammer just slipped!" Inquisitor Trevelyan ducked as a particularly sharp spur gear shot past and left a nasty scratch on a nearby suit of armor. The commotion around the tool chest paused, both dwarves turning to look at the Inquisitor as they processed her claim. A second of silence passed, barely long enough for her to realize she'd made everything worse.

"A slip means the mechanism isn't firing on the right timing, are you sure the oscillation on the runes are synchronized?" Bianca dropped all her tools and marched towards the now retreating warrior.

"They're set to her heart rate. You don't get much more synchronized than that." Dagna was also bearing down on the Inquisitor.

"Now, when I said 'slip' I actually meant -," Trevelyan was backing away, holding up her hands in defense.

 _Hands. Plural. Would you look at that?_ Varric saw that the left arm was little more than a metal and leather gauntlet but the artificial fingers denoted panic just as eloquently as flesh.

"Well, something's out of kilter." Bianca grabbed the protesting limb, splaying the entire appendage wide to prod at every edge and finger with an angry looking needle.

"Bianca, still attached." Trevelyan was trying to pull away but she was now held fast by four hands, Dagna gripping her elbow to strip the casing. Varric had a brief glimpse of something that looked like the inside of a clock if it had been made by a blood mage under the influence of a lot of drugs. It glowed. Not the sickly green of the Fade mark that had threatened to kill its bearer but certainly a pulse of magic infused the machinery.

"Look here, the balance wheel is bending." Skyhold's arcanist pointed to something inside the Inquisitor's arm, jabbing a nasty set of tweezers under the leather skin.

"Still attached!" Trevelyan bit her lip, stifling the louder cry that was obviously clawing up her throat as the entire left side of her body jerked in spasm. The way her arm was yanking, she'd end up dislocating her shoulder just to get free.

"Ancestor's asses! I knew we should've used jewel bearings. Everite is durable but it just isn't going to match diamond. We're going to have to strip all the gears and replace them." Bianca sighed and grabbed a work cart, rustling the tools to find a large and evil looking set of shears.

"Shit! I'm still attached, Maker damn it!" The Inquisitor finally stopped trying to be polite and wrenched herself free, flinging both dwarves in opposite directions. Dagna hit a rack of tongs and fullers, raining half of them over herself and across the floor. Sera raced to her beloved Widdle, cursing worriedly as she helped her climb free. Bianca had been thrown through her new thresher prototype (blessedly disabled) but she clambered over the top, utterly unfazed.

"Also, we should probably make it easier to unclip in emergencies," the dwarf smith decided, the artificial arm now secure in her grip.

"Still got a way with the ladies, don't you, Inquisitorship?" Varric's barking laughter managed to snap Trevelyan's wary eyes away from the paragon. Relief flooded her expression as she recognized her ally. The blonde rogue was the first person she met in Haven that made her laugh. Leliana aroused her curiosity, Solas her intellect, Cassandra pretty much everything else. But it was always Varric that could make her smile, and no matter all they had been through, that never changed.

"Not my fault that they can't keep their hands off me," the Inquisitor returned with a grin, closing the space between herself and the writer in three long steps. Even with only one arm the warrior was a damned good hugger. Probably helped that all that heavy Inquisition gear protected her ribs more than Varric's usual victims.

"You gotta play nice, Inky. Otherwise I'll tell Lady Bear-Puncher what you're up to down here," Sera chided, escorting her girlfriend back to the center of the workshop with a rather protective frown. The elf wasn't particularly experienced with soft and squishy feelings, at least beyond the battlefield. The happy ones led to pranks, maniacal jokes, laughter and (most likely) nudity. The serious ones manifested in the urge to stick arrows in everything nearby, usually resulting in flesh wounds or frustration.

Trevelyan must have recognized the unpredictable threat, instantly starting to protest.

"Don't you dare!" Dagna interrupted, catching Sera's arm and spinning her around to focus, "We're so close to getting it right! The Inquisitor has been incredibly patient about letting us work with her on this. You wouldn't make us give up all these months of trying!"

Anyone who had met Skyhold's arcanist would've been stunned to see what was undeniably a pout forming across her perfectly shaped mouth. There had been a secret vote behind the walls of the Inquisition, trying to decide which dwarf was cuter: Dagna or Scout Harding. Varric had wisely kept out of it, since his opinion wouldn't help but his involvement would undoubtedly reach other ears. For Sera, of course, the choice was obvious. In the face of the only eyes bigger and more adorable than an elf's, her will to fight curled up and vanished like hair on a flame.

"It's getting dangerous," the blonde continued to try to protest, but without any of the loud anger that usually helped her win arguments, "Before it was all just gears and wires and such with a rune or two. Good fun for party tricks and all but now that bloody thing has a mind of its own!"

"Actually, it's taking on the Inquisitor's mind," Bianca called helpfully from her workbench, holding up the mechanical arm to show that it was sporting a rude gesture.

"Explains a lot," Varric chuckled, catching Trevelyan's grin. She looked like a mother who'd just seen her tiny tot kick a bully in the fork. _Might work for the next kid's book. Self-Defense for Smalls? Shit, nah, sounds like a Chantry sister trying to protect her vows._

" _Her_ mind? Like that doesn't sodding make it worse." Sera had already surrendered the fight, incapable of resisting the brilliant heat that lit up her Widdle's eyes when it came to work. But she could pout too, when she wasn't snarling. With the dwarf in her life (and thoughts, journal, bed etc.) the angry faces just didn't come as easily anymore. Especially at times like this, with Dagna's fingers wrapped affectionately around her hand and squeezing away the worries.

"We'll be more careful, alright? And it's almost done; a few more adjustments, some fine-tuning. This is going to help thousands of people when it's finished! Farmers who've lost their limbs in accidents, children injured from birth, soldiers wounded in the war – this is going to help them all work and play and kill again!" The arcanist's frown promised she'd actually heard what she was saying, "And that didn't sound like I wanted it to but I know you understand. It's going to be great, Bits, you'll see."

Varric smiled faintly, recalling the conversation that her odd pet name always drew to mind. _'With the right bits, an edge can be more than an edge. Armor can do more than protect. A hue can be just a bit brighter.'_ Dagna had found her own private masterwork. Figured it would be the only person nugshit crazier than herself.

"Arse bumps! Fine, you win!" Sera sighed, the last of her frown vanishing when the dwarf let out a happy squeal and tugged her down into a kiss. It was probably meant to be a brief peck of gratitude but the elf's nimble fingers threaded into Dagna's hair, refusing to surrender her consolation prize.

"That's sweet, but she's wrong," Bianca finally returned from her workbench, fiddling with a tool inside the spastic limb, making the fingers twitch like a nervous kid around loud noises, "We have to replace all the wires and rebuild these gears. We should also think about switching from a double rune pattern to triple so that it's less linear and more spiral, better for movement. Plus, if you want easy access and breakaway we're going to have to rework the attachment cuff on your arm. Maybe something magnetic? But those metals are so weak . . ."

"Bianca, neither of us knows what you're talking about," the Inquisitor pointed out, glancing down at Varric for confirmation. He nodded back at her, smiling only because he was far more used to these soliloquies of analytical gibberish.

"Dagna! Have we enchanted any dragon bone? Dagna?" Bianca let out a small snort of irritation when her work partner didn't reply beyond a small squeak that was more about needing air than supplying answers. The smith shoved Trevelyan's replacement hand into her remaining one and grabbed a small wrench from her tool belt. She threw with the accuracy of a rogue's dagger and the improvised weapon hit Sera square in the shoulder, effectively making her release hold of her girlfriend.

"Not lately," Dagna hadn't missed a beat of the conversation, only slowed by the breathlessness laboring her words, "But we have a dozen pieces of Vinsomer spine. If we want to replicate magnetism it would probably work best with the lightning capacity in those bones."

"Good idea. Since we're rebuilding the internal mechanisms anyway perhaps we should look at replacing the joint work? The two pulley system works but we could get more precision in the movement if we allowed for more variant in wire length and tension." Bianca unfurled a set of heavily used and mostly destroyed blueprints across the floor, kneeling and slashing with black charcoal over the design.

"More flexibility means less strength. We'd be compromising the joint with every modification. But if we shore up with redundant wires it might provide the stability without sacrificing range." Dagna was instantly on her knees beside the smith, her own piece of charcoal countering the modifications and creating her own.

"They're really into this, aren't they?" Varric shook his head in wonder. A master enchanter and smith involved in the same project. Ordinarily he'd have thought egos would get in the way but clearly the two women knew it would take all their skills to give the Inquisitor back an arm. And apparently they spoke the same language of fanatical perfectionism.

"You've no idea. They've been like this for months now. Inky only pops in now and again for adjustments but they've been living this project. Can't barely lure Widdle out for a drink, let alone a bit of fun," Sera sighed, folding her arms to lean against the same wall as the other sidelined spectators, "You know she's sleeping here these days? Swear I'd think she was cheating with Bianca's mum there if she weren't just as obsessed. Might actually be worse this way; both with their knickers in a twist over a hand that ain't even offering to get them off."

"Sorry, Sera. I had no idea they'd go so overboard with this whole idea. I just wanted something better than a hook." The Inquisitor's apology was sincere, confused how such a simple proposal had turned into this life-consuming ordeal.

"Shit, Isabela would've helped you with that," Varric laughed, "She's got a whole chest of souvenirs from sailors who needed a bit of augmentation. Fake hands, peg legs, even a creative bit of carving with straps on it."

"Let's get me a hand first, then I'll ask her about that one," Trevelyan smirked, eyes dark with sordid imaginings as she looked at the artificial fingers she still held, "I do kind of wish they'd do something about this material. The seams are so damned rough."

"You wear gauntlets more often than underpants and you're complaining about some leather stitching?" Varric demanded, savoring the way the Inquisitor was momentarily squirming. The unstoppable warrior was clearly torn between having to explain herself and just keeping her mouth shut, either would obviously lead to embarrassment. It didn't take a lot of imagination to know why his friend objected to the abrasive sutures, particularly as her eyes roved so distastefully over the tips of the fingers. But it was Sera that came to her rescue.

"Yeah, is it that bad?" She grabbed the leather and metal limb from Eve's hand and shoved it down the top of her dress, pausing thoughtfully, "No, you're 100% right, Inky. Widdle! You've got to change these fingers. Seeker might like it rough but even she doesn't want her tits bleeding at the end of the night."

Bianca and Dagna both looked up from the blueprints, paralyzed by the sight of their invention moving lewdly under the fabric of the elf's corset.

"That isn't exactly what I meant, Sera," the Inquisitor tried to object between spasms of choked laughter. She and Varric had to support each other with an arm each to keep from collapsing to the ground.

"Oh, no? You meant the other bits?" The blond elf was absolutely reveling in the blend of laughter and horror that spiraled under her control, "Probably hurt like shit tomorrow but might be fun to say I had the Inquisitor's hand in my pants, right?"

Before she could follow through on the threat, Bianca and Dagna were both on their feet, cannoning into her and wrestling the limb away.

"Weren't you the one worried about it being dangerous?" Dagna chided, having tackled Sera to the floor and keeping her pinned while her cohort took their project back to the safety of the workbench.

"Sure, but I've been in town ten days now and my bed's still colder than a brass arse. Figure if that thing has some of Her Teetness' mind coming into it, at least I could get a bit of fun." Sera tossed a wink at the Inquisitor.

"Leave me out of this one, both of you." Trevelyan immediately held up her hand in protest, refusing to be drawn into what was clearly a lovers' issue.

"Buttercup, if you're that frustrated then I'll pay for you to get the deluxe special at the White Rose. That'll work out all your kinks and probably give you some new ones." Varric's eyes took on a merry, malevolent twinkle as he offered a solution that wouldn't help at all.

"Save your sovereigns, short stuff. You'll be needing that special before I will." The elf wrestled faintly in Dagna's grip, exploring the strength of her hold without any attempt to escape. She was enjoying the position too much.

Her jibe was enough to remind the writer of why he'd come in the first place. Getting time with Bianca was nearly impossible since the entire Merchant's Guild kept them apart and her family had a bounty on his head. They were lucky to see each other a handful of times in the year, just enough to remind them both of what they couldn't have but also wouldn't give up. Varric's eyes fell to the master smith; she'd been fussing with taking apart the Inquisitor's arm again but the shift in subject matter had caught her attention as well. Across the smoke of the forge he could see her gaze finding him, years of familiarity telling her exactly why he'd come.

There are different kinds of blue eyes. As a novelist, narrator and incorrigibly romantic bull-shitter, Varric had described them all. There were the cut-crystal shards like Nightingale's, a thousand facets of thought constantly spinning, flashing in the light lest a single secret slip out. Hawke was the opposite; her stormy blues confessed everything she was thinking at any moment, changing from slate grey hate to wave tossed passion in an instant. The color of Cole's eyes was creepy until you got used to it; a Fade-touched translucent sky like windows to everything, just like his mind. But Bianca's eyes would always be beyond description. At least for him. Maybe someone else would say they had the energy of lightning, or the pale dawn color of promise, or –sod it– the flashing laughter of a thousands gems gleaming in the sun. Varric only knew that when he met her gaze it was a spell beyond anything his words could capture. Or want to share.

"I'm sorry, Varric. You've come a long way," Bianca gave a small nod of acknowledgment; he was a viscount and she a paragon, they didn't come together by chance anymore, "Did you want me for something?"

In a serial this would be all too easy. _He took take several steps forward, manly strides devouring the distance like the hunger behind his smile._ Knowing the rhythms and flows of romance was second nature to Thedas' most famed writer. _He reached for her, fingers hesitant even if the need was sure, unspoken words pouring from his touch and gaze, overwhelming any protest._ Bianca knew Varric better than anyone else in the world, better than the Inquisitor, better than Hawke; shit, better than he knew himself. _Her lips curled upward in anticipation of relief for the tension knotting beneath her breath, the nervous excitement that darted the edge of her tongue to swipe across her lower lip._

"She's shooting high and a little to the right. I think the sights are off," Varric explained, delicately pulling the crossbow off his back and holding her out.

"Poor baby, let's see what's wrong." The smith's hands were just as gentle, cradling the weapon like a mother reunited with her lost child; tender but eager all the same.

"Wait, was this supposed to be a booty call or an upgrade?" Sera watched in confused astonishment as the two dwarves bore the infamous crossbow to a clear workspace. A martyr couldn't be laid out with more reverence than Bianca being placed on the bench.

"Not a lot of difference with dwarves, Sera. Better learn that now." Trevelyan tossed her a wink, noting that even Dagna was watching the technical work with a heavy-lidded gaze more appropriate to a voyeur witnessing a threesome.

"The trigger mechanism is worn. I designed her for a light touch, Varric. I thought you had sensitive fingers," Bianca scolded as she began analyzing the damage to her most prized but anonymous invention. They worked seamlessly together, passing tools back and forth, caressing and tuning the weapon in tandem like it had been done a hundred times before.

"I do. But she started liking a little rough handling now and then. Just like everyone else. Can't treat her like porcelain when she's made of metal too." The Viscount of Kirkwall defended himself, a soft chuckle rumbling beneath his words like a dragon's rocky purr. His hand had caught Bianca's briefly over the retention spring and now they were both smiling.

"Suck Maferath's shriveled balls! I'm not sticking around to see which of them takes an arrow up the arse. Come on, Widdle, you're not getting sod-all done the rest of tonight." Sera deftly slid out from under Dagna's weight and then pulled them both upright. The arcanist chewed her lip for a moment as she debated the choice. Bianca jumped when the other Bianca fired unexpectedly, the loud sound of release echoing off the forge walls.

"She's definitely too sensitive. You haven't been using her enough. All the polish and cleaning and maintenance is just going to leave her too tightly wound if you never take her out to play." The paragon immediately recognized the problem, though that didn't explain why she sounded a little breathless.

"You're right, Bits. I think we have enough time to catch a quick bite." Dagna surrendered to the tugging insistence on her arm, allowing herself to get dragged away.

""S great, yeah? Maybe get something to eat after that." Sera grinned and used both arms to haul Widdle out of the workshop.

"I'm a viscount, Bianca. I can't just disappear for days to give her what she needs, not like I used to." Varric hadn't even noticed the elfves' departure.

"It doesn't take days, Varric. A few hours here and there. Just to keep her primed and used to the touch." Bianca was also oblivious to anything other than the crossbow and her would-be lover.

"She's never had anyone but me! How's she _not_ going to be used to my touch?!" Varric's demand straddled the edge between the beginning of an argument and the bursts of restraint. The small flare of jealousy in his voice was Trevelyan's cue to leave.

"Relax! It's not like she wants someone else. But high end performance means she shows neglect a lot faster than your standard models. You just might want to give her a little more attention." Bianca's reasoning was mockery, soothing and persuasion rolled into one.

"Ancestor's asses," the writer sighed, one hand trailing affectionately over Bianca's barrel, "You would know. Alright, I'm free the rest of tonight. Is that good?"

"It's a start." Bianca grinned, pushing the hood of her cowl back to fully reveal the brilliance of her smile. The Inquisitor was out the door before she heard – or saw – Varric's reply.


	6. Mea Culpa

Warden Amell had once arm wrestled Oghren.

On the road to Redcliffe she and her companions had to take refuge from a heavy storm, conveniently ending up in the Smoking Crow tavern rather than camping in the inhospitable West Hills. Boredom and frustrated energies gave way to juvenile jokes and competition as rain and wine poured freely. Leliana was playing something delightful on her lute. A duet of low, growling complaints came from Sten and the mabari at his feet, both despising being trapped in-doors. Morrigan and Alistair were bickering about the value of toads vis-à-vis being turned into one. A young married couple were both flattered and confused by Zevran's persistent flirtation. Wynne, weary from what she called 'babysitting,' managed to snag the last empty room for sleep. That left the Warden and Oghren, happily trading a bottle of whisky back and forth along with playful insults and teasing challenges that culminated in the table being cleared and both of them rolling up their sleeves.

She lost, of course. Horrifically. Magic has many uses but the Aura of Might is nothing against a dwarf's brute strength. In less than three seconds pain exploded from her wrist clear to her shoulder and the wrenching force flung her off the table. Oghren cursed his apologies and helped her up but the rest of the companions had no such pity. Morrigan even refused to heal her. _'Your foolishness will be the death of you long before this Blight.'_ The apostate had great faith in pain as a teacher and Solona learned her lesson well: Learn some damned healing spells.

The memory of that throbbing ache in her shoulder was all Solona had for comparison as she marched down the Grand Cathedral steps. She'd been trying to manage the pain with her own limited healing abilities but she just wasn't skilled enough. She could harness the powers of the Fade to blast darkspawn into dog food but could barely take the edge off this stabbing pain that shot along her entire arm and left her fingers numb.

It wasn't just the wear and tear of carrying a 20+ pound child that did the damage; it was the constant strain of keeping her grip against the unpredictable bursts of magic that were always threatening to carry her away. She'd bit her lip to stifle any pain as she lifted the girl from bed this morning, but it was useless, nothing ever slipped Leliana's attention. The redhead's concern coaxed and cajoled until Solona finally surrendered their daughter to her arms instead. Then the woman continued to work her fiendish pout until she agreed to go get healed.

Warden Amell glanced up at the tall towers of the Grand Cathedral above her, practiced eyes easily finding the balcony that belonged to the Divine. _She's in one of the most secure buildings in Orlais._ She took a long breath, repeating the arguments. _Her mother is the single most powerful woman in Thedas._ An image of Leliana's face swam behind her thoughts, lips shaped in the tender kiss she rested on their daughter's brow but eyes full of the ferocity she'd seen so many times in battle. _She has the protection of a network of spies and guardians more dangerous than the Crows and House of Repose combined._ Charter herself seldom left the grounds of the Grand Cathedral anymore. The elf claimed that as the Divine's spymaster she needed to stay close, but Solona suspected her real motivations were a bit more protective.

When the knots in her stomach finally unraveled the Hero looked back across the courtyard, ready to go find a healer and return as soon as possible with a shoulder properly repaired for containing her daughter's powerful whims. She stopped, however, when she noticed a familiar figure darting out of the shadows of an arch and heading for the door of a side chapel. In a kingdom where everyone wore masks the surest means of anonymity was a naked face. Solona might not have recognized the visitor's features beyond her ears but she knew that graceful movement and speed, as well as the air of confidence that would have been misplaced in any random servant.

Following on instinct brought the Warden into the side of the cathedral devoted to confessionals. She arrived just in time to see the visitor slip into one of the ornate compartments, sealing herself and secrets inside. The heavy wood walls and thick fabric muffled all sound from within the confession box but Solona was positive that the conversation had nothing to do with the Maker. If it was who she thought then it wouldn't be more than 5 minutes before that booth exploded in trouble.

"Lady Amell, you are always welcome." An older woman in Chantry robes approached with a smile, the greeting so unfamiliar that the Warden almost missed it completely.

_Damn you, Hawke._ Her cousin had restored the family name and title, only to turn around and adamantly refuse to take either. To be fair, the Hawke name was now just as famous and important, and Marian was also writhing under her own label of prestige. But Lady Hawke was Champion of Kirkwall and could punch anyone that used the flowery title. The Hero of Ferelden Warden-Commander Lady Amell wasn't so lucky in Orlais. The tedious mouthful was too popular at parties. It was worth it, however, just for the delicious irony of Leliana's tongue caressing the proper title with that wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Thank you, sister. Can you please tell me who is taking confessions this morning?" The Hero nodded in greeting, trusting her smile to make the question sound innocent.

"We have three mothers interceding for the faithful today. I'm sure there is much for you to discuss with the Maker." The woman's practiced expression of peace gave way to a curl of satisfaction, eyes full of assumptions about the nature of Solona's sins. Two years and there were still stubborn holdouts that resented her presence in the Grand Cathedral. Or, more specifically, anywhere near the Divine.

"I'm concerned the mother in that booth might be in danger." The Warden ignored her elder's smug gaze of judgment. She hadn't survived the Joining, uniting an army, defeating an Archdemon and escaping the Calling just to be shamed by a spinster's dirty thoughts.

"That is Mother Mariela, she was only recently elevated." Genuine concern wiped away any castigations and she began to move forward. She hadn't made it three paces before the door of the confessional burst open and a frantic Chantry Mother all but fell out in her haste to flee. Solona caught her before the panicked woman's tangled feet could pitch her into a pedestal of candles.

"Are you alright? What happened?" The Hero scanned for signs of injury but saw none. Only the wide eyes and flushed cheeks of narrowly averted danger.

"Maker preserve me, she is a heretic! Or a demon!" The young Mother's mouth was trembling as she fought to even her breath, "An abomination of some kind, you must get rid of her!"

"Calm down, I'll take care of it. Sister, perhaps she could do with some soothing tea?" Solona skillfully maneuvered the traumatized mother into the other woman's arms, making certain to place herself between them and the confessional. There was a particular brew made in the kitchens that had long served as salve for the more histrionic members of the Chantry. Interestingly, it hadn't been as much in demand since the vows of chastity were abolished.

Only once both upset women had left the chapel did she turn and stroll into the open door of the confession box. The compartment was tiny, dark and smelled of damp wood and tears. How many years of regrets had soaked into these walls? Solona settled onto the small bench, stretching out her legs as best she could in the cramp quarters and wondering how the geriatric mothers of the Chantry managed to sit in here for hours.

Even though neither of them had spoken, the Warden was certain that the mysterious guest was still on the other side of the divider. Her silence was like a shadow falling across daylight.

"You can't be here to confess since listing your crimes would take us well into the afterlife and I don't think either us want to be spending it together. And we both know you don't actually feel sorry for any of it." Solona finally spoke once she was comfortable.

"The Chantry and I will always differ on our definitions of sin, I think." The thickly accented Orlesian reply was lower in tone than most other natives, throatier notes that could turn from purr to gravel.

"It's still anything you enjoy," the Hero helpfully clarified. The Chantry had a thousand different ways of saying it but the basic message was always the same: if it feels good, stop.

"Then it seems we are doomed to meet in the afterlife once more, yes?" A soft shift in breathing was almost a laugh.

"So long as it isn't just you and me," Solona agreed, "There are a couple others who'd have to share our fate. The four of us could probably find ways to entertain ourselves for eternity."

"Must I remind you that we are in a holy place, Warden?" The chastisement should have been a sharp rebuke but instead there was amused delight rolling over her words.

"I know where I am, Marquise, I just don't know why. Perhaps you could enlighten me?" The Hero knew she was delightful company but not even her charms were enough to lure Empress Celene's spymaster into the Maker's house without reason.

"Her Radiance requests a private audience with the Divine." Briala went straight to the point.

"Oh? Finally going to elope, are you?" The Warden perked up, grinning as she caught the heartbeat of a pause that meant she'd caught the elf off guard.

"I believe the Empress prefers to follow the Most Holy's own example in such matters." The carefully measured reply was equal parts deflection, humor and veiled accusation; the finest arts of the Game.

"That's a shame. I had the nicest tea picked out as a wedding gift. A spiced blend perfect for heating the blood." Now she knew she was taking a risk. Solona and Briala had met only a handful of times on public occasions but these secret meetings had nurtured the playful friendship of kindred spirits.

"It is kind of you to consider Her Radiance's passions. However, her enthusiasm for tea is not limited to specific occasions." The Orlesian's tongue rolled artfully around her words, drifting from sensual to sarcastic but smug all the way through.

"Alright, you win this round." Solona gave in with a sigh of laughter. She'd never been good at the Game and its double talk. If Leliana had been here the conversation probably would've escalated for hours. They'd end up discussing strategic military techniques that were actually specials in a brothel.

"Pity, I was warming to the subject. On to business, yes?" Briala's voice was laced with an edge of satisfaction and the Warden knew she was smirking.

"I assume Celene has a suggested time and place?" The Hero easily slid into the familiar necessities of their conversation.

The Inquisition wasn't the only institution reducing its numbers to weed out enemy spies. The Chantry and Empire alike were tightening their control, trusting fewer agents as they worked more closely together. Ravens at the Grand Cathedral were considered too suspicious and the doves were too bloody stupid to be of use. Reports were sent only through the most secure channels. The tasks of ultimate importance, the movements and plans of the Divine and Empress, never passed beyond the ears of the two women they trusted with their lives.

"The University is holding a ceremony for presenting awards to their most accomplished students. I understand an invitation was extended to the Divine?" The Marquise's voice had moved closer, lips pressed almost to the metal of the grate between them.

"There will be a massive audience in attendance. Finding a private place to talk will be difficult." Solona frowned, mentally walking the grounds of the massive University and imagining the hundreds of bodies crowding its estate. She and Leliana were still arguing about going to the event at all. That many people in one space made it an even more lucrative target to the fringe elements that longed to depose the Chantry's most liberal Divine. The Inquisitor was on her side, protesting that they couldn't sweep and secure the location adequately in advance.

"Very true. However, a large demonstration of the University's alchemical research has been suggested. An unstable art at the best of times, no? The faculty thought it wise to provide a fully fortified viewing room for their most honored guests. The Empress will naturally enjoy watching the spectacle from within its very safe, very _private_ quarters. As would the Divine, should she decide to attend." Briala savored the plan as she explained. There could be little doubt who had given the University leaders such suggestions. It was probably done with such subtle finesse that they genuinely believed it was their own idea.

"Marquise," the Fereldan paused as a suspicion began to seep into her thoughts, "Did the Empress know Divine Victoria was undecided about attending the ceremony?"

"I am sure I could not say." There was that heartbeat pause once more, a breath like a stifled smile.

"Maker's ass," Solona groaned, realizing she'd been outmaneuvered, "Well played. The Divine can hardly refuse to attend now. She'll come to the ceremony and the University can brag about Chantry endorsement to their heart's content. But I'm going to make sure the Inquisitor has _all_ her people there."

"Most wise, Warden." Briala had too much sophistication to gloat.

She probably couldn't take credit anyway; the scheme had Celene and Leliana's touch all over it. Clearly, the Divine wanted to attend that ceremony as badly as the Empress wanted her there. Solona felt only marginally better about her surrender, knowing she'd been outwitted by two of the finest minds in Orlais. She felt _much_ better knowing that the Inquisitor's closest allies would likely cause enough trouble at the event that no one would even notice the Divine. Sera, The Iron Bull and Inquisitor Trevelyan all in one place virtually guaranteed scandal. Safety as well, but mostly scandal.

"What did you say to scare that poor Mother out of here, anyway?" The Hero had nothing but admiration for Briala's creativity in arranging these unexpected conversations. A month ago Solona had taken her daughter to see Reville's Folly, only to be invited into one of the gondolas by the waiting Marquise.

"I confessed that I was having visions of Andraste in my sleep," the elf supplied with a failed attempt at innocence.

"Ah, and just what did these 'visions' involve?" The Fereldan's lips quirked into a knowing grin.

"The only good reason I've ever found to kneel. She did not listen long to the details of my confession." The low purr under Briala's reply gave way to join Solona in laughter, undoubtedly loud enough to be heard outside the box.

"I swear, Marquise, the Maker is going to damn us both." The Warden fought to bring her spasms of delight back into control.

"Then it cannot hurt to give Him more reason, no?" The elf smoothly replied, a small sigh of satisfaction at the end of her words.

"A pleasure, as always, Briala. I will see you at the University ceremony." The Fereldan bid her farewell and reached for the handle of the door but a tiny intake of breath made her pause. The spymaster was debating one final thought.

"What you said earlier," an uncharacteristic hesitation paused the elf, silently arguing with herself, "If the Empress ever should choose to trade marriage vows . . ."

The doubt in Briala's voice was being desperately controlled but hints of it bled through the cracks. Solona cursed the wall and grate between them at that moment. She shifted closer, wishing she could at least squeeze the other woman's arm in comfort. Between their many jokes, taunts and double entendres lay the constant awareness that they shared a similar fate. She and Leliana had been fortunate that the Chantry was stronger than the Game, that the Divine's sheer will could make a place in Thedas for them to be together. Celene did not have the same advantage.

"I imagine it would be a very private affair," the Hero kindly finished the thought that she knew her ally couldn't, "The Empress faces constant political pressures; there are enemies who would fight to prevent _any_ union so as to control the Game."

"Yes, precisely." The Marquise agreed a little too quickly, gratitude rushing her words.

"Divine Victoria feels very strongly that the Maker wants vows made from the heart. The Chantry's blessing would obviously be available to such unions," Solona paused to enjoy Briala's long sigh of relief, "So long as she gets to be there to give it."

"I promise you, Warden, I could not imagine it any other way." The Marquise offered a last, gentle laugh before letting the Hero slip away.

* * *


	7. The New Order (Cassandra/Inquisitor)

The Seekers' new stronghold in the Hunterhorn Mountains was growing at a rapid speed. Having allies in power across Thedas certainly helped. Leliana, Josephine, Varric, Dorian and even Sera, in her own strange way, were all constant sources of aid and assets. Carts labored heavily up the rocky mountain paths daily, burdened with supplies and more volunteers eager to serve. Cassandra turned most of the hopefuls away, so many that she'd already lost count. At a time when spies and secrets were threatening to corrupt every major institution in Thedas, this new Order had to be pure.

A flash of satisfaction and pride surged behind her eyes as Lady Seeker Pentaghast looked over the few dozen recruits that had been deemed worthy to train over these past years. All older than the original Seekers would have allowed but she had to be certain they were making the choice for the right reasons, not because they were indoctrinated from childhood.

"I think they've had enough rest, don't you?" The voice beside her was practiced at issuing orders but sounded happy to have surrendered the burdens of command.

The greatest relief in this reconstruction work had been finding the handful of Seekers who'd escaped Lucius Corin's insanity. They had either been shrewd and independent enough to break away from the Order and flee before the betrayal, or had already been far away on assignments. Cahail was of the latter group, his hunt to eradicate blood mages dragging him into the depths of Tevinter in an effort to understand the true origins of the maleficarum. The Imperium found out, of course, and it was likely his time detained in their cells that saved his life.

"Perhaps," Cassandra nodded, watching as the recruits tirelessly ran back and forth to haul timbers and stone through the gates. Another reason the Hunterhorn stronghold was progressing so quickly: the strengthening labor was a relief from the Seeker's more arduous training.

Cahail quickly barked orders, causing a flurry of activity as construction materials were traded for weaponry. The ranks of novices fell into an obedient line, form perfect and eyes alert.

"Now that you all feel so confident because you have strong muscles, let's work on speed and reflexes again." Cassandra reached into the box at her feet, trying not to laugh at the barely suppressed groans that rose in chorus from all the recruits. Keeping quiet under command was the first lesson Seekers had to learn.

Seeker Pentaghast launched the projectile without warning, straight at one of the men. Chevaliers performed this exercise with apples but she had found a more motivating tool. The recruit grabbed for his sword, barely freeing the edge before rotten tomato exploded across his breastplate, oozing strands of slime trickling down the polished metal. None of the others laughed or taunted like they had the first time, now they only shared the pain and fear of knowing it could be them next. And it was. Two more tomatoes went flying; one hitting its mark, the other smashing against the flat of a blade and sending bits of fetid matter flying.

Cassandra continued firing her organic weapons in rapid, random bursts, unpredictably varying her targets. The second lesson for Seekers was the proper care and cleaning of their armor and it was amazing how quickly they all learned to treasure it more than skin. It wasn't uncommon for some of the slower trainees to grow so upset with their sullied armor that they begged Cassandra to throw rocks instead. The dark, stinking splashes stung their pride, pushing them all to improve that much faster.

By the time the box was finally emptied only half the recruits had stains. One desperate fellow had ducked and taken the rotten fruit straight in his face. She rebuked him thoroughly, of course; clean armor is useless if it doesn't save your life. Mentally, however, she noted the speed of his movement and was pleased to see such a swift reflex. He'd be a good Seeker, the sort willing to dive towards death without flinching. She'd just have to make sure he learned what was or wasn't worth dying over.

"That is enough for today," the Lady Seeker gave them a terse nod of approval, "Seeker Cahail, my training blade, please."

Cahail allowed a small smile to cross his face, tossing over the blunted sword as she moved to the ring in the far corner of the courtyard for their closing ritual. Cassandra stepped onto the crunching gravel, strapping on the dull blade and unraveling a long white sash from its handle. They finished every day with this exercise: The Challenge. The Lady Seeker, their leader and legend, stood blindfolded in the middle of the sparring ring. Any opponent that could successfully force her out of the circle won a week of reprieve from basic sword drills. No one had ever succeeded.

The Challenge served two purposes. For one, it allowed her to assess each recruit's skills without bias; learning their fighting styles, strengths and weaknesses through honest combat rather than observation. Not to mention it let her know who had the courage even to try. More importantly, this exercise embodied much of what Seeker training required; it went beyond physical and mental disciplines. Learning to be a Seeker wasn't just a mixture of grueling demand and terrifying courage, it needed an element of mystique. The men and women that would form the future Order needed to be amazed, inspired, mesmerized by the skills they hoped to master. Cassandra tied on the blindfold, the barest quirk of confidence playing across her lips. She would remind them, every Maker Blessed day, of what they were trying to become.

The first three attackers were all regulars. They each tried the Challenge at least once a week and she could identify them by the weight and speed of their steps long before they even crossed blades. She dealt with each in quick succession, familiar with their vulnerabilities. Jak was too impulsive, Ashwara too hesitant and Logan just plain too slow. There were no games in the sparring ring, Cassandra didn't tease or toy with her trainees. Each was bested as rapidly as they deserved. For the entire first year, she'd had to keep one arm behind her back just to make the duels last more than thirty seconds. They were finally learning the discipline of calculated attacks, strategic footwork rather than foolish frenzy. Even so, the longest bout ever was barely two minutes. And that was still one-handed.

Two more tried, one right after the other. Myra and then Hoff. Cassandra had suspected for several weeks now that they were competing with each other. The constant hostility and antagonism between them was a warning of impending romance or the cover of a relationship already begun. Eventually she would deal with that. Mainly because Myra was a much better fighter and the Seeker didn't want Hoff getting injured.

"Time for one more. Anyone else?" Cassandra announced after the tenth defeat. There used to be only two or three recruits brave enough to face her each day. Now it wasn't unusual to face half a dozen. Ten, though, was a record.

A slow, measured pace stepped onto the gravel behind her and a surge of pride swelled her breath. They kept trying. Even when they knew it was impossible, they still kept trying. These were already fighters that would never lay down in surrender, never give up in doing what was right because they each had the stubbornness and will to see a mission through. More than a year of knocking them down and they never hesitated to get up and try again. She couldn't have been happier with them if they dragged in a dragon's head.

The sword that swung for her was so sharp she almost didn't hear it cutting the air. Cassandra spun and met the blow, the force of it jarring every bone from her fingers to her spine. That was new. She fell into a standard rhythm of traded strikes, testing the power and speed of her opponent. The sheer strength behind each strike had her wondering if Angus had finally decided to step into the ring. The largest but shyest recruit tended to hang back, ferocious in battle but worried by attention. The decision to let him join the Seekers had kept her, Leliana and the Inquisitor arguing for hours but eventually he got in. The Order's first Qunari. Not that he ever let anyone call him that. Raised by tal-vashoth parents in Hercinia, he preferred to be labeled a kossith. But he also liked the nickname he'd been universally given on the first day: Ox.

The rolling sound of gravel sliding under a boot on the left pulled Cassandra to that side, prepared to cut off a lateral attack. Instead, a blow landed against the plate on her right and she knew this couldn't be Ox. Few of the recruits had mastered a side-lunge, let alone the subtle shift of weight for a feint like that. A second and third maneuver far too advanced for her trainees were all deflected but she was forced to give ground – a first in this ring. This wasn't one of her Order.

A surge of indignation at being deceived pushed her forward, parry launching into a reverse that would've dangerously injured one of the novices. That had always been the hardest part of the Challenge: defeating and disarming her opponents without actually hurting them. Now she didn't have to worry. Her pattern of slashes pushed the enemy back, forcing each clash of blade to happen _exactly_ where she wanted. Closer and closer still until giving ground wasn't an escape and Cassandra felt the solid connection of her blade pinning metal against armor. A lunge pushed her close, holding the blocked sword in place and quickly absorbing everything she could detect about the mystery attacker. Size was average, too big to be elf or dwarf but definitely not Qunari. A small human in large armor or vice versa. The smell was exactly what she'd expect: metal and leather mingling with hints of horse and sweat. The breath hitting her cheek was slightly labored but not panting, stopping suddenly to silence all sound when Cassandra's pommel jerked up to connect with bone.

When her enemy finally sucked air across tortured teeth there was a stuttering cadence to it, like someone without enough breath to laugh. Cassandra barely had time to process the realization before she was thrown back, an abrupt promise that they were both done playing. A merciless volley of attacks had her lunging backwards, barely blocking each blow before it could land. The murmurs of awe from her recruits told her she was near the edge of the circle. In chorus they all either held their breath or gasped with each clash of meeting blades. Her rear heel scraped the timber at the edge of the ring.

Cassandra knew that people thought her arrogant but she was nothing other than practical in battle. There would be no winning this fight. Not blindfolded. Not unless . . .

She raised her elbow a little too high on the next swing, exposing a few extra inches of unguarded torso and the blunt pommel hit her exactly where she expected. The force knocked her back, heel caught on the wood that lined the sparring ring and she began to stumble, flailing for balance. A strong grip immediately caught her belt, barely keeping her from falling. She dropped her sword and grabbed hold of the helper with both hands, the instinctive reaction of anyone avoiding danger. Not quite so typical, however, to bury one hand in said helper's hair to guide a blind but heated kiss. Cassandra all but purred as she felt her quarry gasp in shock and melt willingly into the embrace. Already winded from the fight, neither could ignore the need for air very long and the Seeker barely stifled a choke of complaint when lips left hers.

"Please, tell me that isn't the reward for everyone that wins." The stunned demand was far more breathless from surprise than exertion.

"Don't be foolish, Inquisitor," the Seeker smiled as she tugged off her blindfold to enjoy the familiar face, "You did not win."

"But -!" Trevelyan lost her cocky grin in protest.

"I have not stepped outside the ring." Cassandra cast a deliberate glance down the length of their tightly pressed bodies, her feet still securely planted on the inside of the sparring circle. The Inquisitor didn't have time to comprehend her technical mistake before an explosive surge of strength knocked her back. It wasn't even a blink of time and the famed hero was sprawled on her back in the ring, a triumphant Seeker smugly pinning her to the ground.

"You fight dirty, Seeker," Eve scolded despite the grin that confessed just how much she was enjoying defeat.

"I learned from the best," Cassandra replied with a peaceful, if undoubtedly smug, smile.

She rose off the other warrior, extending a hand to help her up while swiftly darting her eyes across the audience to gauge their reaction. All the recruits looked appropriately awed by the battle and proud of their leader, perhaps even more so because of the trick she'd used to win. A handful avoided eye contact, awkward from guilt or glints of jealousy. Alive in every gaze, however, was an unmistakable energy: the burning desire to be dismissed so they could go talk about what they'd just seen. Barracks spread gossip faster than foot rash.

"I am going to be hearing about this for weeks, you know." The Seeker gave Trevelyan her signature scowl, the one that would make enemies wet themselves if they weren't already sweating to death. Eve's replying pout was utterly unrepentant, proud of her stunt and its near brush with success. She hadn't released the Nevarran's arm since getting to her feet, using the grip to pull Cassandra a few inches closer.

"Well then, since the damage is already done," the Inquisitor's eyes darted playfully to her lips once more, sparks of mischief swirling in warmth, "There can't be any harm in saying hello properly."

With only the slightest nod of permission from Cassandra she tilted her head and closed the distance between them. The brief brush of lips was far gentler than before, a modest touch familiar in its tenderness and meaning alike. The Seeker drew comfort from so many rituals: prayer, practice, cleaning her armor, sharpening a sword. None could put her mind at ease as quickly as this simple custom, a greeting that promised everything was complete once more.

"I missed you," Eve confided in a hushed sigh too quiet for anyone else to hear. She'd released hold of the Seeker but was reluctant to step away.

"I know," Cassandra echoed the tone before taking a deep breath and becoming a leader again, "But that is to be expected given your terrible practice habits of late. You will have plenty of time to hone your skills while you're here. First drills begin at sunrise and I'm sure the recruits would love to have you join them. Wouldn't you, men?"

The answering roar of approval was deafening when it came from all sides. Eve's shoulders sagged in a silent groan but she managed a faint nod of surrender. This was to be her punishment for interfering with the Seeker's training in the first place and she would accept it with grace. As well as with that familiar, knowing smirk. Seeing the Inquisitor's absolute willingness to yield, to support her authority in front of her men, Cassandra felt a knot of appreciation very nearly untie on her tongue and rescind the order. _Six days. I will not force her to rise so early for more than six days._

The Seeker turned and began issuing commands to the trainees for the rest of their evening. From the corner of her eye she could see Trevelyan watching her, pride and adoration mingling in her gaze. Cassandra had seen the weariness around her edges, the faint lines of fatigue marring her features and weighing down her military posture. The burden of Eve's daily duties had not lightened since the day they formed the Inquisition and these trips to the Hunterhorns were her only respite. Despite her obvious exhaustion and the promise of relief nearby, she seemed unable to tear herself away from her beloved's presence. Once the recruits had all dispersed, Cassandra turned her attention back to the patiently waiting Inquisitor. _Maybe only five. She needs the rest._

"So how did you know it was me?" Trevelyan casually asked as the Seeker returned to her side.

"You held your breath to keep from making a sound. You knew your voice would give you away." The Nevarran's answer danced with amusement as she recalled the exact moment that she knew her opponent's identity.

"So _not_ making a sound gave me away?" Eve didn't bother trying to mask her skeptical sarcasm.

"I did not hit you lightly, Inquisitor," Cassandra noted the already mottling colors that would be a bruise on the woman's jaw, "I know no one else so stubborn as to take such a blow silently."

"Next time I'll scream like a little girl. I'm sure Dorian could teach me." The Inquisitor's sparkling eyes reveled in the answering laughter.

They fell into step, strolling the courtyard at a casual pace as if nothing mattered other than being together. Which wasn't quite true. The Seeker could see Eve's gaze drifting to the central tower where her quarters lay, an obvious longing written across her face. Anyone else seeing that expression (and having heard the endless gossip) would've easily mistaken it for mere physical desire. Cassandra, however, knew better. She had learned the subtle differences in each emotion that played behind the Inquisitor's eyes. This yearning was far more complex, one she was intimately familiar with: the desire to be selfish. It was the need to escape all other duties and demands, to devote time and attention only to each other. Saving and rebuilding a world took up every inch of their lives and the most rebellious, indulgent act they could enjoy was just being alone.

Trevelyan spotted the subtle, teasing arch of Cassandra's brow and knew she'd been caught. A guilty smile darted across her mouth but she made no effort to apologize, dutifully turning her eyes to the training yard once more. She was willing to wait, content simply to be with the Seeker even if hundreds of eyes insisted on following their every step. But now her desire had bled into Cassandra and found its echo in her own thoughts. _Perhaps she must only train with the men for four mornings. That will be more than enough to inspire them._

Having finished her rounds in the yard, Cassandra had to force her pace to stay at the same measured speed. Her feet were trying to turn traitor, anxious for the privacy of heavy walls and a closed door, the relief of finally just being herself with her beloved. Hurrying, however, would only lend fuel to the gossip that already flooded the stronghold every time the Inquisitor appeared. The leader of the Seekers of Truth could not be seen to have anything less than perfect mastery of herself. Iron control over every inch of her life; body, mind and soul. Unfortunately, nothing in her life had ever tested that discipline more than Inquisitor Trevelyan. In small nudges and impulsive risks the woman was constantly loosening the Seeker's rigid control.

"Cassandra?" The Inquisitor had reached out to take her hand as they walked into the Seeker's tower, tugging at her attention, "You're smiling."

"For the love of the Maker, don't tell Varric." Cassandra's smile only widened, glancing down to wonder at how leather and metal could interlace as easily as fingers.

Those who knew her from before the Inquisition murmured at how easily Seeker Pentaghast smiled now, astonished when they heard her laugh. None of them could understand such a change, not until they saw her with Inquisitor Trevelyan. She'd grown more comfortable with the small expressions of intimacy that graced their time in public: walking closer together, brushing hands, the occasional brief kiss. After decades of keeping her emotions completely private, lest they be perceived as weakness or put a target on her loved one's back, she'd finally realized there was a rush of power in defying judgment and simply enjoying the freedom she'd earned.

"Careful, Lady Seeker. The men might get the wrong idea and think you're happy to see me." Trevelyan continued to tease, squeezing the Seeker's hand in an affectionate echo of her chuckle.

"I am." Cassandra wasn't sure if she'd ever been so pleased to see a slab of wood as at this moment, spying her door.

It swung shut behind them with a groan that echoed the Seeker's own sigh and she relaxed against the Inquisitor, gratefully resting her cheek on a metal shoulder to wait as the world melted away. The bite of cold armor, a hitch of stuttered breath before a long swell of relief echoed her own, a faint but regular rhythm pulsing in the skin closest to her lips, the smell of warm leather and flesh creeping towards her tongue. She could feel breath against her neck, hear the knot of words Eve swallowed to savor the simplicity of silence together. One arm was less to hold on with and she held twice as tightly to compensate, the strength gripping the Seeker's waist unbreakable unless she was willing to shatter bone.

"Nothing could make me happier," the Nevarran warrior confirmed once more, the iron edges of her personality pouring strength into her words. She had never thought a single person could make her so happy. If she ever dared to think about it for too long it began to feel dangerous, terrifying to know how much this woman meant. If Cassandra didn't so thoroughly know that love was strength, she would've believed Eve was her greatest weakness.

"Good," Trevelyan swallowed again, a slower, heavier sound like something from the depth of her soul being controlled, "Because Maker damn me if I'm going to leave your bed before sunrise for more than three days."

The Seeker laughed. She stifled the sound against her lover's armor but nodded her assent to the reduced punishment. The Inquisitor was undoubtedly confused by the easy victory but didn't hesitate to celebrate by finding Cassandra's lips. _I should not tell her I was about to go down to two._


	8. Red Friggin' Jenny

Eve Trevelyan started misbehaving at parties at the age of seventeen. The fit she threw on that occasion -protesting the gown her mother had made her wear by grabbing a dinner knife and slitting it open to dance more easily– was the prelude to a long and infamous career as the bane of hosts and hostesses everywhere. Her many claims to fame included inadvertently poisoning a punch bowl, breaking up with a boyfriend by means of duel, getting flung through a stained glass window, simultaneously seducing a hostess and her son, bringing a known prostitute as her escort and attacking a nobleman with an ice sculpture. Each horrific escapade had a perfectly logical explanation (like not knowing the toxic properties of some Qunari liquors), but that never seemed to matter when her mother had to drag her away drunk, bleeding or naked.

Such experiences were good training for the demands she would eventually face with the Inquisition. Performing a shockingly seductive dance with a psychopathic duchess, scaling a flowered trellis undetected, battling demons without making noise to disturb guests and, most memorably, confronting the Empress of Orlais with the evidence of a forbidden love affair stolen from her own vault; all of it required a level of confidence and skill that would've been impossible for anyone who hadn't already happily scandalized ballrooms across Thedas. Throughout that night Varric had been cackling at her elbow and Cassandra scolding all the way, both unconsciously reminding Trevelyan that she was the only one that didn't find any of it strange.

Try as she might, however, Eve couldn't remember a single impulsive adventure that set a precedent for what she was doing now. Huddled in a massive but cluttered wardrobe, telling time by the distant sound of songs and dances changing, limbs cramping from the confined quarters and barely able to breathe in the suffocating air of velvet and perfume. This was something entirely new.

"Congratulations, Sera. I didn't actually think it was possible to hate these bloody parties more." Trevelyan shifted her weight, trying as best she could to ensure that the loss of blood would be even through her entire lower body.

"Right. Piss, piss, moan and whatever. You're glad to be away from those all those prats on the dance floor sniffing 'round you," Sera giggled, completely immune to the Inquisitor's disgruntlement.

"Yes, but we left Cassandra to the dogs and she's going to be furious." Eve tried not to picture the scowl that would undoubtedly have rent the Nevarran's face the instant she realized her allies vanished.

"Knew the job was dangerous when you took it," the elf shrugged. Easy to be blasé about a Seeker's temper when it's going to be aimed at someone else.

"Yes, and once more," Trevelyan moved again, grabbing a handful of something silk to pull herself off her pinned foot, "What noble task for the good of all Thedas requires us being stuffed in here like sausage?"

"We're waiting for a sausage to do some stuffing." Sera delighted in her own wit, tongue poised to elaborate with any of a dozen more innuendos if Eve didn't appreciate the first.

"Comte Foreaux and his mistress, yes I remember that part," the Inquisitor quickly cut her off, "I just can't remember _why_."

"It's Jenny business, Inky, not your war table mucking. 'S not about all the answers, cause half the time they aren't there. We get a lead or complaint and follow up. Right now Red Jenny says the lady that's getting it regular from Comte Four-Arse needs to be brought down a peg and they'll be in here sometime tonight." The elf's explanation had an edge of impatience underneath, mildly irritated by her accomplice's incessant need for logic.

"Got it. Adultery, scandal, public humiliation. Sounds delightful," Eve nodded, a rather useless gesture in the dark confines.

The Inquisitor knew that Sera's unorthodox Friends did unique work and they did it very, very well. The Game itself couldn't topple nobles faster than the network of servants and 'little people' that were practically invisible but always watching. The information they gathered sometimes exceeded even Leliana's formidable sources and they put it to very different use. To start with, almost no one ever got killed.

Since accepting Sera's invitation to get more hands-on with the Jennies, the Inquisitor had helped steal crucial letters, documents and trophies from manors across Orlais. She'd routed four different gangs that were preying on alienages and made sure that a cheating miller went out of business. Flour is terribly flammable. Yet, time and again, what the Jennies truly wanted from her wasn't her skills or sword or even creative methods of making things explode; they wanted her title. The Inquisitor got invited to places no other Red Jenny could infiltrate. Not even the servants of a house could be expected to vanish during festivities to plant damning evidence on blackmailers or lift a noble's personal seal.

So Eve found herself attending far more parties than ever before and hating them just a little less. It was a relief to slip away from the exaggerated politesse and cause some good old-fashioned mayhem. It also gave her time with Sera, a luxury that was all the more precious given the callings that had dragged so many of her friends away. Not that sharing space in a box for the last twelve songs was quite the way she'd care to enjoy her friend's company. It did, however, afford her an important opportunity.

"Sera," Trevelyan cleared her throat, realizing she didn't actually know how to broach the subject, "You know we're working on understanding Solas' Eluvian network?"

"Yeah, I heard you're trying to get leads on your scary bird, Empress too. Figured it wasn't just 'cause you both have a weird thing for the dark and broody type." The elf confirmed that she was staying as informed as ever, in her own language.

"Not a lot of people know much about the mirrors. We've got the Marquise of the Dales helping us work out what we can and yes, Morrigan would be a huge asset but Leliana invited another friend who might know a thing or two," Eve paused, wondering if she should brace herself for violence, "Merrill's coming to Val Royeaux."

"Aw, the Daisy's coming? That's grand! Have to see if Widdle wants to come along and help me get her drunk!" There was so much enthusiasm in Sera's voice that the Inquisitor genuinely believed she would clap her hands if she could get them near each other.

Trevelyan knew her mouth had dropped open but no words could come out, her tongue twisting uselessly as she processed the surprising reaction. It had been well over a year since the breakup but she (and everyone else) had assumed the only reason both elves continued to seem so happy was because they never had to see each other. Come to think of it, no one even knew exactly when Sera and Merrill stopped actually being together since they'd always been in separate cities. It was just a gradual awareness that neither of them talked about the other anymore. It wasn't until she found Sera and Dagna wrapped around each other in the Undercroft that she knew there was any change in the elf's love life and by then she'd been unattached for months.

"You want to go out drinking with your girlfriend and ex," the Inquisitor repeated the idea, wondering if Sera was even capable of hearing her own insanity, "How exactly does that work?"

"You kidding, Inky? Pretty straightforward: grab a few bottles, divvy it out over mugs and make sure everyone keeps drinking 'til they can't pour straight." The blonde explained the process with teasing disbelief, like she was having to teach a child how to pick their nose.

"I mean spending time with Merrill. I would've thought it'd be awkward since you two, you know . . ." Eve should've known better than to hesitate for even a second. It had to be Cassandra's influence that left a polite pause in her words, ripe for Sera to leap in with her own.

"Were getting naked like it was the new Orlesian fashion?" The elf's voice was so entertained that Trevelyan could _feel_ the smugness rolling off her grin.

"No, since you stopped," the warrior corrected, finally remembering that it was stupid to talk to Sera like anything other than the batshit crazy little miscreant she was.

"It'd be daft to still be getting in her knickers when I've got Widdle. You're trying to be touchy-feely about this aren't you? Doesn't suit you a bit," the blonde scoffed, "Is it Grumpy who's put you up to being worried or Viscount Busybody shoving his nose in?"

"Both," Trevelyan confessed with a sigh of relief, "I know this is no one's bloody business but yours and hers but we can't have Isabela's fleet sailing in to lay siege on Val Royeaux because her kitten got her feelings hurt and she wants your tits on a platter. Same with Dagna: she's a master arcanist, do you know how much damage she could do if she thought you were upset?"

"She's got that sweet bit of scary, hasn't she? All innocent and helpful right up 'til she's making armor that melts faces or what not." Sera's entire tone was warm and low, affection smoothing all the usually rough edges of her words.

"Not the point, Sera." The Inquisitor snapped her fingers, forcing her friend to focus.

"Oh relax, Inky. Nothing's going to happen. I saw Merrill two months ago in Kirkwall and we had a bit of drink and laugh. Not like calling it off was all surprises and heartbreak or nothing. Obviously wasn't going to last, you know." The elf's shoulders shrugged against her.

"No. I didn't know," Trevelyan admitted, still trying to find her balance in the off-kilter moment.

"Really? Pity, we did," Sera sniffed like an Orlesian noble about to give a lecture on cheese, "'S fun and all but really it came down to fundamentally irreconcilable differences."

"You got that phrase from Vivienne didn't you?" Eve instantly pounced on the completely foreign words tangling her friend's tongue.

"Ugh, Madame Fancypants went on at me for ages. Lots of high talk about mages and dalish and all sorts of bollocks I couldn't make sense of except to know she thought I was going to get my bits blown off." An annoyed noise of disgust rattled in the back of Sera's throat.

"Aw, the Iron Lady didn't want someone killing you before she got the chance." The Inquisitor chuckled, managing to find her fist long enough to bump what she thought might be Sera's shoulder.

"That's what I figured. I suppose I could've saved her the worry. Could've just told her Merrill and me were already calling it quits, but I never saw a woman twist her words into such funny shapes to say everything other than what she meant!" The elf had always been rather awed by the Court Enchanter's ludicrous fashion, bearing and attitude; it took a special kind of confident to be that full of shit.

"So, why didn't it work? You both seemed pretty happy." Trevelyan carefully prodded further. Any second now Sera would shut down the entire conversation but for a moment the elf was being unguarded and honest, none of her usual temper or insanity obscuring the facts.

"Happy, sure, but happy ain't all there is. I mean, I was happy helping you and the Inquisition, freezing my arse off on the top of a rock pile and shooting anything that moved funny. If happy was the same as love I'd have been in your sheets years ago, Tadwinks." Sera punctuated the impossible with a loud, smacking pucker of her lips and Eve cringed. Friend, yes; trusted ally, mischievous accomplice and even beloved drinking partner, absolutely. But any thought of Sera on a more intimate level was about as wrong as trying to picture Cole naked.

"That's pretty insightful, Sera. Kind of hard to believe," Trevelyan sighed, accepting the limits of her own imagination, "There's no resentment at all? No hostility or bitterness or – I don't know – desire to shove each other into the nearest pile of rusty daggers?"

"Andraste's flaming tits! You've had some shite breakups, haven't you, Shiny?" Sera's high pitched laugh was shocked and breathless, "No. Merrill's great, I'm great. We had our fun and moved on and Widdle is . . . Well, Widdle's better than great. She's the best there is."

Even in the dim light, the Inquisitor could make out the white outline of a huge, dopey grin. It was totally unaffected, completely honest and proud enough to stand naked before the whole world without giving two farts for their opinion. It was utterly Sera. Eve was about to say as much when noise from beyond the wardrobe caught their attention.

The increasing volume of fancy footwear approached the study, a staccato pace growing louder with every step before hitting a crescendo when the doors burst open and let in a cacophony of music and laughter from the distant ballroom. The noise was silenced with a slam and heavy thump, the sound of bodies colliding against wood.

"Game time," Sera whispered happily, opening the wardrobe door just a crack to observe the couple groping each other nearby.

In the dim light that sliced across the dark interior, Eve watched the blonde slip a small vial out of her pouch and hand it to her to hold ready. When the couple fumbled past them it was clear they intended to remain fully clothed, skillfully bypassing inconvenient layers with a speed born of familiarity and practice. Over the sound of ruffling material and heavy breathing there was a single, pristine noise like someone striking a bell; the metal to marble clink of a mask hitting the floor. Trevelyan heard Sera's breath let out in an exultant sigh of relief. She'd been right: impossible to get a proper kiss with masks on.

Tilting her head, Sera's bright green eyes glinted in the slivered light, tracking the lovers across the room. At the moment she deemed perfect, the door opened wider and she leaned out, snatching a fallen mask from the floor and yanking it back into the shadows. Silently, as they'd practiced, Eve uncorked the vial in her hand and carefully poured the contents over the inside of the mask, gingerly avoiding letting it touch her skin or Sera's. The fumes rose up around them, less a smell and more a burning sensation on the inside of her nose. The oil coated the entire inside of the noblewoman's ornate mask. Once dry, Sera quickly returned it to the study floor, harmlessly awaiting its return to an unsuspecting face.

The espionage complete, Trevelyan closed the vial and let her ally slide it back into a belt pouch full of deadly and embarrassing potions. All that was left was to wait out the carnal gymnastics still going on outside the wardrobe. Eve could hear Sera occasionally holding her breath, concentrating on deciphering the sounds from outside and then stifling silent laughter when a particularly significant moan or curse punctuated the rest of the noises. There was the creak of thick wood, a strong piece of furniture being tasked in a way it was never intended. Beneath that rhythm was the crack and glide of paper, slipping across a smooth surface or being crinkled in fingers. A muffled thump as something heavy and probably crystalline fell, followed by the almost indiscernible trickle of liquid.

The desk. They were definitely on the desk. Which was stupid, in the Inquisitor's opinion, since the study had two comfy sofas and four very sturdy, well-padded chairs. Not to mention the massive fur rug. The gasps were rising in pitch and frequency, soprano notes laced over a baritone grunting like druffalo sniffing for grass and Eve had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at the absurd sound. At this point she had a nearly perfect mental image of exactly what was happening on the other side of the wardrobe door and the only fact she didn't know was whether the noblewoman was getting bruises on her breasts or bum.

Mercifully, the Comte Foreaux was both quick and selfish, a drawn out Orlesian curse promising release. A few more minutes and they could finally escape this luxurious coffin. There was an exchange of murmurs, chiding and laughter that Trevelyan couldn't understand but recognized as the universal language of 'you owe me,' followed by shuffling feet and rustling fabric being arranged back into place. She and Sera listened with held breath to the footsteps pass by with only the briefest pause. The festivities beyond grew loud once more and Eve risked a peak out her cracked door, spying the noblewoman putting the finishing touches on her mask's position just before she vanished down the hall.

"Maker's ass, that's going to hurt!" Trevelyan laughed as she let the cupboard fall shut one last time.

"Not for a few minutes. It warms up on skin and then it'll just keep getting hotter and hotter until it feels like a dragon's been licking at it. Her choice whether to take the damn thing off or not." Sera easily dismissed the concern, content that their victim would be choosing her own punishment. The humiliation of stripping her mask would save her skin but destroy her standing; conversely, if she could suffer the pain then the crushed chili oil would burn everything it touched and ruin any chance of donning another mask for weeks. Either way, her influence in the Game was completely lost. Another Red Jenny success.

The Inquisitor began to unfold her legs, ready to rise out of the wardrobe as Sera pushed at the latch, only to freeze when both of them realized the door didn't move. The elf tried again, twisting on her makeshift handle but unable to get the lock to budge.

"Oh arse biscuits," Sera breathed, bringing her eye as close as possible to the key hole, "My holding pick fell out. Friggin' thing locked!"

"Maker's sodding -," Eve bit her lip, stifling the tirade of profanity that would be oh so therapeutic but utterly useless, "Do you have more picks?"

"I've always got picks, I'm a thief," the elf replied with so much dripping disdain that Trevelyan could feel the heave of her eyes rolling heavenward.

"Then just get us out." The Inquisitor bit back any further retorts. She'd already lost all feeling below the knee and her shoulders were screaming from being crushed inside the narrow space so long.

"'S not that bloody easy. The latch angle's wrong from inside, like going wrong ways in a funnel," Sera shot back, just as irritated with the situation and already shoving tools into the mechanism with the ferocity of her bow shots.

Eve groaned, thumping her head against the door and then following it with a fist. The wood shuddered but there was absolutely no give. She didn't have the room to land a solid blow and there was no leverage in such tight quarters. With her luck, she'd slam all her force into the wardrobe doors only to topple the whole thing over face first. _Cassandra's going to kill me._ The Inquisitor had lost track of time. Were they in here an hour before the adulterous couple came for their indulgences? Longer? How long before the Seeker began tearing the place apart looking for them? At this point, Eve wasn't entirely sure it was a good idea to be found.

A snap of metal and sharp curse pulled her eyes to the dark outline of Sera. The pick that broke in her fingers had drawn blood and she sucked irritably at her hand. Slick fingers were useless for lock picking, not that it stopped the blonde from trying. The third pick kept slithering around in her fingers, rolling wetly from her grasp and eliciting even more growls and cursing before breaking like the one before.

"Sera, stop." Trevelyan grabbed the elf's hand and held it still, worming a kerchief from her pocket to wrap around bleeding fingertips. In the silence of the rogue finally holding still, Eve picked up the faint sound of steps approaching once more. Several this time, all moving with the cowed, subservient silence of trying not to disturb anyone else.

"Servants. They'll get us out!" The Inquisitor realized and opened her mouth to yell for the staff, only to be choked by a hand over her mouth and another at her throat, cutting off all sound.

"You daft?! Course the servants are coming. Who do you think tipped us off to the slap and tickle going on around here?" Sera demanded, furious as ever to find that the world was even dumber than she thought, "The only reason for them knowing is to come in and clean up afters! Next few minutes they'll be in here sorting out mussed papers and spilled ink and cleaning ass prints off the desk. They find us and we'll look guilty as Templars with a naked mage!"

"But they'll let us out," Eve whispered after she'd clawed the elf's fingers off her lips.

"Yeah, and three minutes later all of Orlais will put together you and a pranked noble and know you're playing games behind their Game. You're no good as a Jenny if you can't keep clear!" Sera bit at her thumbnail, trying desperately to think.

"What do you want me to do?" Trevelyan quietly swallowed all the pride and authority of her usual command and waited. This wasa Jennies' operation and she wasn't the one in charge. They heard the gentle creak of the study doors opening and shuffling feet slipping quickly, efficiently, into the room.

"Take off your jacket," Sera finally decided.

"What?" Eve barely managed to keep her voice to whisper, surprise cracking the edges like thin ice.

"Off!" The elf offered no further explanation, her own nimble fingers already flying over the laces at the front of her dress. There was absolutely no room to maneuver and the Inquisitor wondered how the servants were managing to ignore the mysterious thumps coming from inside the wardrobe. Once her jacket was off she felt hands grab the hem of her tunic underneath and push it up, bunching the fabric in frantic fingers. There was the sudden warm contact of naked skin and she jerked back, smacking her head against wood hard enough to make her teeth ache.

"Hold still, friggin' idiot! I'm getting us out of here." Sera snapped, the harsh words barely carried on her breath right before she locked her mouth over Eve's. The Inquisitor instinctively fought, trying to push away and only succeeding in bruising her fists and elbows on every vertical surface in their prison. She tried to shout but it was muffled by Sera's tongue, a forced familiarity that would take years of drinks to forget and then teeth sank into her lower lip. Hard.

"Maker damn it! Get off!" Eve shouted at the pain that shot through her mouth, tongue immediately tasting copper and tender skin.

"'S right, that's the idea, honey-tongue," Sera purred, using a voice that was equal parts tease, challenge and longing. The Inquisitor managed to keep her crazed friend away from her wounded mouth but that just meant lips and teeth attacked her throat instead and she wondered if stabbing her might bring her back to her senses.

"Sera! What in the Maker's grand ass games are you -!" Trevelyan's demand was cut short when the doors to the wardrobe were yanked open, pouring glaring light over both women. Eve blinked, trying to shield her eyes but that only exposed even more of her naked torso and she quickly yanked the tunic back down.

"Oopsie." Sera's scandalized pout was almost believable. The elf scrambled to get her feet on the floor outside and began fumbling to lace her clothing back up. Only the dancing laughter in her eye and sharp twist of one brow warned the Inquisitor exactly how to play along.

"Sorry about that." Eve rose more carefully, putting on the arrogant air of a noble with nothing to hide. She drove the point home with a cocky smirk as she pulled her jacket back on, summoning the lackadaisical contentment that so easily flooded her features after a long night in Cassandra's company. The servants predictably averted their eyes, all too willing to pretend they hadn't found the Herald of Andraste groping an elf in a cupboard. Trevelyan nodded to herself, looping an arm around Sera's waist to escort her from the room at a slow saunter.

Once they were beyond the study and the doors had safely shut behind them once more, both women rushed down the hall. They raced around a corner before allowing themselves to collapse against a wall in breathless horror and laughter.

"Shit, Sera, you could've warned me!" Eve gasped for air between the fading chuckles that continued to break through.

"Had to be authentic. You're louder when you're surprised," the elf sniggered, finishing the ties on her dress with a much swifter, steady hand.

"How do you -? No. I don't want to know." The Inquisitor sucked at her injured lip, sure to be bruised and swollen for at least a day. Somehow, she didn't think Cassandra was going to be very sympathetic after she heard this story. The thought of the Seeker must've painted itself across her face because Sera's smile turned a bit more worried.

"Grumpy's going to go mental when she hears about this, isn't she?" The blonde hazarded, looking down the corridor that led back to the party.

"The prank or the kiss?" Trevelyan straightened off the wall, already preparing herself to face the music.

"Both." Sera skipped alongside the Inquisitor's steady stroll.

"Probably," Eve admitted, "But she never believes anything servants say. She thinks they're all working for you."

"Good. Just let me get safely away before she sees what's under your jacket." The elf's eyes darted tellingly over the high collar of Trevelyan's dress uniform.

"You didn't!" The warrior groaned, hand unconsciously shooting to the thick fabric and tender skin beneath. That was going to be very . . . unpleasant.

"I got us out of there, didn't I? She can come kick my arse after she thanks me first. Then you can thank me after." Sera's feet picked up speed, prancing away more quickly.

"For what?" Trevelyan demanded, balancing offense and affection in the loud protest.

"For what she's going to do to that body of yours to stake her claim! She's the jealous sort, Inky, and you're all hers. Bet you 5 sovereigns she spends all tonight reminding you." The archer's smile was a wicked flash of teeth punctuated with her tongue darting across the corner of her mouth.

"How about if you win, I keep her busy late enough tomorrow morning for you to get away?" Eve shot back, having to shout to be heard by the retreating blonde.

"Deal!" Sera's laugh echoed in both directions along the corridor long after the elf had vanished.

_Just like old times, Mother._ Trevelyan smiled as she tucked the last of her clothing back into place.


	9. The Game (Celene/Briala)

Eyes and words can pierce far deeper than daggers. To survive politics in Orlais required a wit sharper than all three. Celene had always been possessed of an intellect keen as any blade, forged and honed in the heart of the most elegant battleground of all Thedas. Perhaps that was what made training as a bard feel so natural, the edge of daggers as easy to wield as an extension of herself. The feel of fighting with a short weapon: in close, rapid reflexes, instantly learning an enemy's skill, exploiting weaknesses, danger measured by inches and seconds; that was how she was best. It was how she played the Game.

_Briala, though . . ._ The Empress gazed across the dance floor to the shimmer of green and gold; poised and graceful, the Marquise was effortlessly holding an audience's attention. She was a different weapon altogether. Deliberate and calculated; the elf had a gift for long term strategy, turning up where no one expected and invisible until the moment she struck the fatal blow. Why had it ever surprised Celene to see her lover's natural prowess with a bow? A flash of white caught her attention, the counterfeit smile Briala used to put enemies at ease as she wove her traps. Her victim this evening appeared to be Lord Maurel, confident in himself and utterly oblivious to the glint of danger in the elf's teeth.

_She is even better at playing than I._ Celene had known as much for years, but each time she was reminded of her love's skills she was buoyed with affectionate pride. It had not been weak or foolish to keep Briala at her side for more than two decades, it was the wisest choice of her reign. Neither could have become what they were alone. Sharp enough when they fought together, sharper still after being honed against each other. The War of the Lions and their own enmity threatened to destroy all of Orlais but instead forged them into an even deadlier alliance. Just in time to face a hole in the sky, a darkspawn that would play god and now an elf that actually had.

"Your Imperial Majesty," a pleasantly low and honeyed tone approached Celene's side, "This evening is truly a delight. I cannot recall the last time I attended festivities without worrying that a spat over Allineas' Third Principle of Derangement would lead to rage demons ruining the canapes."

"I fear you must find our hospitality rather dull in comparison, Lady Tilani." The Empress regarded her guest of honor. It was the political equivalent of balancing on a razor's edge, inviting a representative of the Lucerni to visit Orlais. Half the empire believed it was the first step towards declaring war on Tevinter, the other half thought it was Celene's way of rebelling against the Chantry. None of them knew of the lengths the Empress and Divine had gone to in order to arrange these talks.

"On the contrary! Not an inch of Orlais could be dull with Your Radiance illuminating it as you do." The demurral wasn't even forced, flowing far more naturally than the typically florid admirations that wove around every inch of the Empress. There was even a trace of humor, teasing away any gravity in her words. It was refreshing. Unfortunately, Celene couldn't afford herself the luxury of enjoying it.

"The Empire has certainly been enlightened by your presence." The artful reply was habit, too graceful to deny the praise but too modest to agree.

"Oh, dear. Your Majesty, I had no intention of challenging you to a competitive exchange of compliments. You would most assuredly win and I fear for the perils to your immortal soul should you be forced to create flattery for an Imperium Magister." The Tevinter blonde's smile was open, parting over a roll of laughter.

The protestation sounded completely sincere, mocking herself far more than the manners of her hostess. Maevaris had the calm and poise of one who understood Orlesian games married with the easy confidence of knowing she didn't have to play. She leaned against the balustrade overlooking the dance floor below, hip resting against the ornate wood like she might slide onto it for a seat at any moment. One hand kept her balance on the rail as she leaned to watch the dancers, her other fingers still gently cradling a crystal goblet full of sparkling wine.

The Empress had hardly known what to expect when Magister Tilani accepted her invitation. She had reports from her spies, naturally, as well as all the information Divine Victoria could supply. _Widow of Thorold Tethras, gifted mage, reformist._ Such intelligence formed only the vaguest outline of the person who would arrive. If asked what she thought a member of the Tevinter Magisterium would be like, Celene would have conjured images from the Chant of Light, perhaps adding details based on the few ambassadors and villains who habitually bled across the border to cause trouble. There were inescapable notions of dark hair and sinister clothing forever associated with the Imperium.

She most certainly would not have predicted the striking blonde that arrived at the palace steps three days ago. Golden hair much darker than Celene's own was cut short into manageable waves, barely gracing the nape of her neck and augmenting every curve and tilt of her face. The only sinister element to her clothing was the fitted style and daring amount of skin left on display. Tevinter fashion clearly felt it had nothing to hide and Maevaris wore it like a weapon.

"As we cannot trade our opinions of each other; what then shall Empire and Imperium discuss?" Celene concluded her private musing, playing hostess once more.

"Lord Pavus tells me I missed a most entertaining ceremony at the University last month." Laughter danced in Maeve's dark blue eyes as she brought her gaze back to the Empress, brow tilting in playful challenge.

"A minor confusion over the names of those being honored. It is fortunate that not all academics are completely bereft of humor." The Orlesian's small smile emphasized her easy dismissal of the affair. In truth, she'd been alternately stunned, incensed and then delighted as she realized the trickery that was undermining so solemn an occasion.

_Collin Forsecks. The name didn't particularly register with the Empress as she watched another of the seated students rise to receive an honor. Not until she noticed that the man who rose was clearly wearing armor under the University cloak. Dark skinned, scarred and far too rugged for any child of nobility, the man made his way to the dais and nodded respectfully to the Master of Ceremony._

_"Collin Forsecks?" The bookish Chancelier who'd been put in charge of today's event cringed as the pseudo-student approached._

_"All day." The dark skinned man had a clearly Fereldan accent. He gave a nod and cheeky wink before returning to his seat. The audience was mostly silent but there were a few titters here and there from swifter and more mischievous minds. The ceremony proceeded through half a dozen more innocuous names and fragile-looking academics taking their awards before another name jarred the Empress' ears._

_"Helen Bedd." The Chancelier read the name, not even hearing it as his eyes swept the audience for the summoned honoree. The blonde elf that popped up out of the sea of students was instantly familiar to Celene. One of the Inquisitor's people. Naturally. Who else would make light of such an occasion?_

_It didn't help that the Chancelier had poor vision from years of scholarly pursuit. He was clearly relieved to be able to read the names at all and have someone respond, utterly unaware of the chuckles that rolled through the audience. He hesitated slightly at the sight of the roguish elf standing before him and foolishly did exactly what the pranksters wished: he repeated the name once more._

_"That's what I'm told," Sera replied with a wink and pranced back off the dais._

_Celene cast her eyes over the audience, spying the Inquisitor to one side. The warrior was keeping vigilant watch for danger but couldn't hide the surprised grin that spread over her features as she struggled not to laugh. Clearly, she wasn't privy to her associates' trickery but hardly inclined to stop it either. It was that easy-going acceptance of her allies that had made her such a popular leader and, for now, the Empress decided to follow her example._

_One by one, a bedraggled pack of mercenaries inserted themselves into the ceremony under a variety of false names. Amanda Lik, Neil Downe, Myk Oxhard (a dwarf!) all made their way to the increasingly flustered Master of Ceremonies and collected awards. How did they even get their hands on the list to change the names?_

_The final straw was Harry Balzac. If the Empress hadn't spent a lifetime controlling every twitch and nuance of her face she would've choked on her own horror and then laughed uncontrollably when a Qunari rose from the crowd. Many of the audience weren't so well trained and the gasps were quickly overwhelmed by laughter._

_"Harry Balzac? Honors in classic literature and poetry?" The Chancelier had gone so red it edged toward purple, finally understanding his role in the massive hoax._

_"I can recite two hundred verses of 'There once was a mage from Qarinus,'" the one-eyed Qunari replied with a wicked grin. The University official stuffed the ceremonial scroll into his giant hand and ushered him off the stage as quickly as possible._

"It certainly seems to me that laughter is as useful a weapon as threats here in Orlais." Maevaris, who'd undoubtedly been informed of the entire debacle, offered empathy with her amusement.

"Indeed. The University staff will undoubtedly go to greater lengths to be familiar with their students and ceremonies from here out," Celene agreed. It might not have been her preferred method of reminding the Chanceliers of their place but the spectacle humbled them greatly. They'd been far more malleable in their eagerness to regain lost favor.

"Pity I missed it. Dorian does a lovely imitation though." Maeve smiled, eyes lighting on her cohort.

The Empress followed her glance, spying the Magister in conversation with a gaggle of courtiers, apparently holding forth on the virtues and vices of Orlesian fashion. He carried himself well in Court and was honored (or at least tolerated) for his past with the Inquisition. The blonde's other companion wasn't quite so simple. A dark haired woman that smiled easily with everything except her eyes. Even now, Celene spotted the stranger not far away; she was engaged in shallow banter with a minor lord, her eyes constantly moving around the audience with a vigilance too paranoid for politics. It would be the height of rudeness to inquire, of course, but Celene was certain that this woman was the reason Baron du Prise was found dead in his bed the morning after hurling insults at Magister Tilani.

_Thinking of insults._ The Empress noticed a familiar foe making her way over. Lady Eustace Richelieu. The noblewoman had proven her power and connections through alliance with the Inquisition, fortifying her stature with implied gratitude. While Ambassador Montilyet had been pleased to accept the Lady's reports and advice, it was ever the Inquisitor who turned the tide of political fates in Orlais and Richelieu was still stung from being ignored. Though possessed of great assets and respectable influence, she was forever estimating herself too highly.

"Your Radiance," Lady Eustace executed a flawless curtsy, "A lovely evening's entertainment. Your guests match the charm Orlais has come to expect of you."

It was a mild barb at best. Little more than an opening volley and Celene let it pass.

"It is ever the position of sacrifice to play host. Orlais has always won allegiance with her delights rather than demands." The Empress kindly accepted the double-edged praise and returned in kind. Richelieu was far too practiced to show any hint of wince or irritation at the veiled accusation. That she was snubbed by the Inquisition for getting too assertive in her advice was still a point of soreness.

"And Orlais is gifted with so many delights," Lady Eustace flowed easily into her next line of attack, "The University and Theatre alike are unparalleled in all Thedas. Have you seen the latest offering at the Grande Royeaux?"

_Ah. There it is._ Celene's iron control refused to allow a tick of smile to cross her features. She had expected just such a play. In honesty, it would have been more natural coming from a member of the Remache family or Bencour, but she was prepared in any event.

"L'Or et Noir? Naturellement. It is always a pleasure to see the resilience of Orlesians in their views of history." The Empress' praise threaded between sarcasm and admiration, impossible to differentiate or accuse. The latest play at the notoriously uncensored theatre was based in the War of the Lions, gold and black being the colors of Celene and Gaspard's crests. But rather than falling into the predictable clichés of heroism and tragedy, the writer had set out a love story to be enacted on the bloody and controversial background.

"I doubt they were overly preoccupied with historical accuracy." Richelieu's expression had begun to sour like a grape left in the sun.

"Likely not. However, it was most entertaining, no?" The Empress kept her face a perfect carving of placid contentment.

Entertaining was an understatement. The first act started as a tragic romance: two lovers separated by the politics of their families and then accidentally reunited on the battlefield, warring for opposite sides. The second act took all the dramatics and agony of that prelude and threw it violently out the window, devolving to unapologetic comedy as the couple went to ever more improbable lengths to keep from killing each other or being discovered by their allies. The most uproarious moment was when the soldier of L'Or narrowly hid his lover and convinced a patrol that they'd seen a demon, sending them running back to camp in a panic. The third act was epic, both lovers caught in the heat of a battle between the full force of both armies and expected at any moment to cut one another down. The miraculous deliverance of a rift opening over the battlefield poured demons over the soldiers and the armies turned from fighting each other to unite against a greater threat. The Inquisitor rode in at the crucial moment and sealed the rift. The lovers recognized a chance for escape and both volunteered for the army of the faithful. The happy ending had them whisked away to bask in their love and the protection of the Herald of Andraste.

"Entertaining perhaps," Lady Eustace's barely kept the distaste from her tone, "Do you not think it overly bold to spread such messages now? To make heroes of traitors and trivialize the loyalty and honor of our armies?"

Celene was glad her mask covered from her eyes to hair, hiding the twitch of eyebrow that was smug victory as she recognized the trap. The play was as controversial as every other public statement dared in Orlais and the cultured of Val Royeaux were quickly divided in their views. Indeed, put any two Royans in a room and four opinions would emerge. Lady Richelieu expected the Empress to side with the romantics, defending the heroes and arguing that love transcended loyalty to crown or kingdom. Alternately, she might hope Celene would be foolish enough to agree with her, condemning the lovers to praise the rest of the loyal armies and thus making a hypocrite of herself and her efforts at peace.

"Theatre is like all other artistic form of Orlais: open to personal interpretation, sûrement," Celene gently wove the placating words into a net, "We, however, found it refreshing in upholding the true ideals of what makes Orlesian warriors rightly legendary. We not only cherish honor and loyalty, we pledge them to the service of more than ego. It is a pity when such virtues are wasted in death, is it not?"

"Well said, Your Radiance." Magister Tilani broke her patient silence to weigh in, lifting her glass in an appreciative toast. A faint line appeared above Richelieu's mask, the frustration of knowing she'd been outplayed once more. Agree or disagree, in either case she would alienate allies. Not to mention that disagreeing would make her look calloused and militant to a roomful of nobles who'd sacrificed sons and daughters to the war. Her only choice was to modestly surrender the subject.

"By the Maker's Graces, you have spared Orlais from anymore of such wastes." The feigned praise accompanied another graceful curtsy and Lady Eustace turned to depart and lick her wounded pride.

"Does that happen often?" Maevaris asked curiously, watching the noble storm away with as much dignity as possible.

"Constantly," Celene admitted, more of a smile gaining ground on her lips than she would usually allow. The victory meant she could relax a fraction for a few minutes. No one else would be brave enough to challenge her for a while, not after seeing that bout.

"The Imperium is full of sinister schemes and power plays but I must say: I've never seen a Court held hostage by courtesy. Doesn't it get tiresome to play these games when you could just wipe all the pieces off the board?" Magister Tilani's brow was knit with genuine puzzlement and even a trace of concern. It was touching; a Tevinter mage worried for the Empress of Orlais.

"As magisters do?" Celene kept her tone measured, trying to prevent the logic from sounding like an accusation, "We trade in favor rather than blood magic but the motive is assuredly the same: pride and control. A noble whose name has been destroyed would likely prefer to have become an abomination. Our empires have developed very different weapons for wielding power but let us harbor no illusions, both have ruined countless lives."

"Very true, Your Majesty," Maevaris mulled the words, taking a thoughtful sip of her wine, "But I think I prefer the demons that attack from the front, not the back."

Celene didn't reply to the quip beyond a charming, enigmatic smile.

* * *

It was nearing midnight before the celebrations ended and the many guests returned to their homes or retired to spare rooms in the palace. Celene's typical headache throbbed, but being free of the corset and finally able to take a deep breath had rejuvenated her enough to deal with the piles of correspondence on her desk. The Empress' bed chamber had a few oil lamps casting shadows across the room, barely augmenting the moonlight that bled in from the windows. Occasional noise from below announced yet another departing carriage full of inebriated guests but otherwise the air was still aside from the scratching of a quill moving across paper.

_Most honored . . . delighted to meet . . . inexcusable lapse of etiquette . . . Beautiful workmanship . . . pardoned on condition._ Words poured effortlessly from Celene's fingertips as she replied to the mountain of letters, setting aside those that required more than sweet flattery or a firm hand. Those she would deal with in the morning when her head wasn't fogged with the pain that inevitably bled into her temples before any evening ended.

"You should have been resting hours ago." The low voice that purred into the silence wrapped around Celene like a silken caress. The very sound had muscles through the length of her body melting into familiar relaxation and coiling with anticipation all at once.

"Some of these petitions could not be left waiting," the Empress replied, keeping her voice and hand steady despite the thrill that raced along her spine.

"Such as?" Briala's temptation whispered directly into Celene's ear, tan fingers gently stilling her own pale hand.

"The Court of Nevarra is most persistent. If unchecked they would likely persuade many of my own nobles that a marital alliance is the wisest course." The Empress tapped the feathered end of her quill against the letter she was addressing, turning her face just enough to watch her lover's eyes narrow at the mention of marriage. There was a familiar twitch in Briala's throat when such subjects arose, a tension of muscle swallowing words. The elf stayed silent but teased away the piece of paper to review for herself. Celene let out a small breath of relief when she didn't step further away, trailing a hand up the Empress' arm to rest comfortingly on her shoulder even as a frown marred her perfect lips.

"They make a valid point. Orlais and Nevarra united would form a solid border against any possible threat from Tevinter," Briala admitted, begrudging but objective as always.

"It is not an option." Celene shook her head, rising from her chair as if to render official judgment.

"Not with this prince they're suggesting, certainly," the elf, rather than being intimidated by her lover's assertion of power, smiled as she recognized the passion behind it, "It's only a pity Seeker Pentaghast isn't available. She is, after all, far more attractive a choice of royalty."

"She is quite low in the ranks of succession," the Empress argued back, failing to suppress her own smile as Briala stepped closer.

"A minor issue. One explosion made a lay sister the Divine. Arranging something similar for the Nevarran Court wouldn't be too difficult," the Marquise replied, hands drifting to roam the pale skin exposed by Celene's scant night dress.

"The Lady Seeker would never be party to such treason. She is a warrior of honor and has served Orlais as much as the Chantry and Inquisition," the blonde pointed out, fighting the sigh out of her words when fingers graced the edge of her neck, "But then, that is what would make her such an excellent choice, is it not? Honorable, pure, valiant, faithful. She embodies much of what Orlais might wish in hero and ruler."

"Then it truly is a pity," Briala's hand cupped Celene's cheek, gently tilting her face down, "That she is very, very unavailable, no?"

The Empress smiled as warmth finally met her lips, allowing the sigh trapped in her throat a sweet but silent release. These evenings had become luxuriously frequent, the business and needs of the Dales requiring the Marquise to fight for her people in the political cesspool of Val Royeaux as often as the battlefields of the Emerald Graves. It was becoming habit, this familiar indulgence and Celene could feel, in the swells and ache between each heartbeat, how desperately broken she had been without it. As Empress she had given everything of herself for Orlais; her life, her energy, her resources, every last shred of her mind and heart save for this one tiny corner that she could not give up. She would not sacrifice this last shred of her true self.

The feeling of fingers deftly moving along the twists and ties of her hair broke Celene's reverie and she pulled away.

"You are not my handmaiden anymore, Bria." The Empress gently stilled the hand in her hair. She had left it tied in braids to stay out of her face at the desk, the long strands not only distracting but inevitably trailing through wet ink when she didn't watch.

"No, I'm not," the elf agreed, freeing herself from Celene's grip to resume her task, "I am simply the woman that loves touching you."

The affectionate assurance, coupled with fingers threading deep into the loosening strands, silenced any further protest. Celene surrendered to the touch, teeth biting her lower lip to stifle the murmur of emotion that threatened to escape. It was only right, fitting in so many ways. After so many years of combing and braiding her Empress' hair, Briala alone was allowed to undo it and rake her fingers through the knotted tresses. A playful touch teased a few pale strands forward, framing her face in the tousled look that Celene knew her lover adored; the unguarded, unpolished manner that allowed woman to take the place of empire.

"Did you notice Baroness Niquette this evening?" The Empress slid her hands down Briala's back, fingers playing along the ties until she found the knot securing her dress and began to tease it free.

"Her gown was at least two seasons out of fashion," the Marquise confirmed, leaning in closer and allowing Celene more reach even as she turned her attention to exploring the pale skin of a shoulder with her lips.

"Suspicious for a woman so obsessed with style, no? But the high collar would be most useful in hiding the evidence of a new lover." Celene's chuckle rolled into a purr when Briala's mouth found the sensitive spot below her ear.

"Someone very recent, then. Or at least very young. They haven't yet learned to not leave a mark," the elf agreed, emphasizing her point by moving away long before the Empress' delicate skin could be marred.

"And Lord Pierre, he did not eat or drink a single thing all night." Celene struggled to concentrate on the seemingly innocent conversation and the task of her fingers fumbling with ties. They had been playing this game almost as long as any other, challenging each other to stay sharp.

"A man that afraid of poison must have reason to believe someone wants him dead." Briala's observation faded into a hum of approval as her dress loosened and slid away, allowing her to step free.

"He must have succeeded in securing the estate in Churneau. The Duchess is not known to suffer losses kindly." The Empress savored the taste of skin beneath her lips, the scent of her love warm and spiced from the festivities.

"You saw Ser Philippe, yes? Wearing the colors of House Boisvert." The Marquise's fingers tensed, digging slightly into the soft skin of Celene's shoulders when teeth grazed her ear.

"He is courting a marriage alliance with the youngest daughter." The Empress' didn't dare speak above a whisper, not with her lips so close to such a sensitive area but even so the brush of air made the elf in her arms shudder.

"He is an upstart and an ass," Briala's tongue felt thick but she strained for words, focusing on threads of irritation against the idiot noble she'd investigated, "And his mistress is already three months pregnant."

"Lady Caprina? I had wondered at her absence of late," Celene's breath hitched for a moment when hands trailed ever lower along her spine, "Let them get engaged. When the time is right we will expose the mistress and bastard and all three houses will be desperate to avoid shame."

"And Your Radiance will undoubtedly have a plan for helping them in their hour of need, yes?" Briala's laugh was low in her throat, a pleasant chuckle like the deep roll of waves.

"Allying with Gaspard cost many nobles their wealth and name. I believe a few well-arranged marriages could swiftly balance fortunes and create a more," the Empress paused, struggling for words as lips moved deliberately down the neckline of her chemise, "Grateful attitude in the future."

"Celene," Briala drew back to meet a darkened sapphire gaze, lips curling up into a mischievously predatory smirk, "You are truly wicked."

"You would know, my love." The Empress, faced with eyes that turned almost black as they devoured her, surrendered her last vestiges of control. With one hand tangled in cinnamon curls she guided her lover back into a long and heated kiss. For tonight, with each other, games could be forgotten.


	10. Threads of the Eastern Seas (Isabela/Hawke)

The pounding noise was more than just her head. It had to be. Her usual headaches were a steady throb of pain, not this ebb and flow rushing around. The roaring in her ears was actually rather comforting. It sounded like the blood pumping through her veins in a fight, in a storm, in bed with. . .

"Come on, Hawke, you don't get to be dead yet." The graveled voice was an echo of her own raw throat. One calloused hand slapped haphazardly at her shoulder, grounding her back into her body.

Hawke opened her mouth to speak but instead felt a surge of water and pain cut off her words. She rolled, barely getting to her knees before vomiting out a gallon of the Waking Sea and a good portion of its beach. The sand felt like shards of glass ripping her open and ocean salt added to every sting. The taste of copper filled her mouth but mercifully she saw no blood. After a few more violent spasms emptied her lungs Hawke finally managed a gasping breath, sucking air across her tortured lips and holding it as deep as she could. When she let it blow back out her breath fell into an instinctive, broken rhythm.

"You're laughing? Already? Can't you at least pretend to have been scared for a minute?" Varric demanded as he also dragged himself upright, brushing absently at a few crabs that had hitched a ride on his coat.

"Of the Raiders I was busy killing or the blowhole you dragged me into?" Hawke turned. The burning cuts all over her face and mouth stung but she couldn't help smiling.

"Is that what it's called? Maker's Bad Breath, I'm coming up with a different name for that thing. Dragon's Mouth, Demon Spout, maybe something about bowels. You're welcome, by the way." The dwarf shook his head. He looked around their newfound refuge, clearly contemplating the efforts of getting to his feet and deciding it wouldn't be worth it. Not yet, anyway.

"Excuse me? You expect me to thank you for getting in the middle of my fight? I was doing just fine." Hawke copied him, rolling to her back to enjoy the momentary stillness. Every inch of her body ached and it wasn't all from being swallowed in the tide and slammed against cave walls like a wet sock. A few of those Raiders were better fighters than the usual lot.

"There were two dozen of them in that camp, Hawke. I've seen _armies_ with fewer weapons!" Varric had known his friend far too long to be surprised by her stubborn streak. He could never be exasperated with her stupidity because it was just too damn entertaining. Sold well, too.

"I was doing fine," Hawke reiterated, completely indifferent to facts, "Eventually they would've started slipping in my blood."

"You're impossible." The blonde sighed but found himself joining her infectious laughter. The sound faded into silence as both rogues continued to savor the luxury of simply breathing.

Hawke wasn't sure she'd ever gone so long without air. There was a reason she never went swimming, not even at sea with Isabela. _Isabela, on the other hand_. The Champion felt her smile grow wider, splitting the cuts on her lip. That woman could live in water, on water, under water. The only thing she didn't like it for was drinking. Hawke had been stupid enough to doubt the sailor when she bragged about how long she could stay under water. That ended up leading to a truly impressive demonstration. Hawke lost track of the time when her legs buckled but Isabela knew she'd won. She always won. _'All a matter of stamina, sweet thing.'_ Maker, the look in her eyes when she came back up! Dripping wet and gripping Hawke's waist to keep her from collapsing.

Hawke shivered. That wasn't going to help any. She came out to the Wounded Coast so she could _stop_ thinking about Isabela, not to have her slip through her thoughts with every third breath. That's what she'd told herself when Aveline mentioned in passing that Raiders had been causing trouble in the area. She was absolutely certain that she was just excited by the prospect of a good fight, not because that coast happened to be the perfect place for watching traffic on the Waking Sea. Not because she knew a particular boulder she could sit on for hours and imagine that one of the many ships sailing back and forth held a familiar dark-skinned sailor, kohl-lined eye pressed to a spyglass and lips turning into a perfectly wicked curve. She didn't think about that at all. Nor was she violently enraged to find that the Raiders had set up camp around that very boulder. Bastards.

"You're doing it again." Varric wasn't looking at her. His eyes weren't even open. Yet there was a knowing smirk itching across his lips and Hawke knew better than to argue with him. That didn't mean she wouldn't try.

"Doing what?" She shot back, hoisting herself off the ground and testing each new pain.

"Thinking about Isabela." The dwarf chuckled, opening his eyes now to watch the tiny twitch of her mouth that was as good as confession.

"That's hardly anything new, Varric. You're going to have to be more specific." The Champion folded her arms, cocking her head slightly to complete the challenge. Varric's smirk just got bigger. He deliberately pushed himself off the wet sand, swiping at the hair that had fallen loose from its tie and matted against his face.

"Hawke, I don't ever want to know exactly which of Rivaini's many skills is occupying your thoughts. Particularly not when you get that damn grin on your face. I just know you only pull ass-headed stunts like this when she's been gone too long." There was a current of teasing laughter under his words but it fell into a sigh at the end.

Beneath all the jokes, Varric knew exactly how Hawke felt. At times like this there was a silent sympathy between them, the understanding of happiness just out of reach. That was when they made a mess of the Hanged Man, swindled everyone they could find, fought the rest and ended up laughing and trading bullshit stories into the early hours of morning, hoping no one else knew what they were trying to escape.

"'Heroic adventures,' Varric. That's what you always call them in your books. My ass-headed stunts have made you rich. Or richer, at least," Hawke scoffed, punching the dwarf's shoulder as she moved past him, ready to start searching for an exit.

"I'd trade the money if it meant keeping you sane." Varric's normally loud and playful voice was suddenly very subdued. There was a somber weight in his tone whenever sincerity leaked in, as if honest words were heavier on his tongue. The Champion had her back to him, staring at the water that gently lapped on the edge of their subterranean shelter.

"Shit, Varric. Do we have to do this?" She desperately wanted to talk about anything else, _think_ about anything else.

"You haven't set foot in your home for three weeks, Hawke. Orana is convinced you've already died somewhere up on Sundermount. Aveline would be out here herself if I didn't convince her to let me handle it. Merrill even noticed and you _know_ it takes a hammer blow to the head to get Daisy's attention!" Varric listed off the obvious first. It was the storyteller in him; he wanted facts out of the way so he could move on to feelings.

"It can't have been that long," Hawke frowned, unconsciously knitting her brow as she tried to sift through the past few weeks.

She had gone to Sundermount, early on. Solivitus had needed dragon gall and half a dozen other strange ingredients. That took a while. Then there were the five nights – _or was it six?_ \- she spent at the Hanged Man. Norah wouldn't let her stagger home after the second bottle of whiskey and Corff always had a spare bed in the back if no rooms were available. She had a vague recollection of giggling hysterically as Merrill tried to learn the rules of Dead Man's Tricks but kept getting confused over the name. There were gaps in her memory, blurs and shadows and she was reasonably certain at least one glimpse of Serendipity shoving her into bed without any intention of sex. Then there was the conversation with Aveline about marauders on the Wounded Coast and a lot of nights staring up at the stars, listening to the waves and holding her breath until she could imagine Isabela right beside her.

"Kirkwall won't fall apart without me." She finally turned back to face Varric, walling off the part of her thoughts that was embarrassed and confused to have lost track of so much time. Even Champions deserved to get away occasionally. She'd been so damned busy the last two months: work for Varric, rebuilding the city, tips from Red Jenny, chasing out scum that thought they could capitalize on Kirkwall's wounded state. Not to mention the endless invitations to Lady Who-Gives-a-Rat's balls. Surely between Aveline, Varric and the dozens of trained city guards dispersed on every street there wouldn't be chaos if she disappeared for a week or two. Or three.

"For the love of the Maker's Bouncing Bride! This isn't about Kirkwall, Hawke." The power was back in Varric's voice, exasperation mingling with disbelief in a bark of laughter. The dwarf crossed the distance between them, grabbing Hawke's arms as if he could barely keep himself from shaking her back to her senses,

"This is about you not running around like a blind nug with a death wish! You think I want to deal with Rivaini when she gets back and you're too broken to get out of bed and ravish her senseless? I know scary women, Hawke, and that one is worse than an archdemon when she finds new scars on you." The tirade would've sounded like a scolding if not for the dramatic moan of complaint in his voice. It wasn't an exaggeration; Varric knew, loved and fought alongside some of the most terrifying women who'd ever scarred Thedas with their presence. Between Bianca's mind, Hawke's courage, the Inquisitor's will and Cassandra Pentaghast's temper it was a miracle he hadn't forsaken the entire gender in favor of passionate mushroom farming.

"I'm a big girl, Varric. I buckle my own boots and everything." She was swiftly losing her desire to fight. Talking about Isabela, about her absence, about her concern; it all touched too close to those raw places in her mind. The ones that made her chest feel like her heart was stuttering between beats.

"Yeah, you are. You're a bloody Champion. But you're _her_ champion. You get more and more useless the longer she's gone." The dwarf's deep voice rasped with weary affection, releasing his death grip on Hawke's arms in a favor of a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She'd heard variations of this same pitiful accusation from every one of her friends. Even Merrill. It was usually Aveline lecturing her. In fact, that was most of their last conversation, wasn't it? _"You never make it past two months without that walking embodiment of everything unholy at your side. Even with Varric getting you drunk and me giving you things to hit."_ Hawke hadn't survived the Deep Roads and saved Kirkwall by spending too much time in her head. It was easier to act than think. Especially when thinking brought her back to the empty half of her bed.

Varric was the only one who could scythe through the laughter and bullshit she kept around herself at all times. The dwarf had the wisdom of a father, the mischief of a brother and the patience of a saint. He'd been at her side after Isabela ran away all those years ago. He'd watched her wounds heal while invisible pain got worse every day. Neither of them would ever tell her for sure but Hawke had a feeling Varric was the first one to know when Isabela was back in town, that he was the first one to talk to her. She couldn't imagine how that conversation went but for months after being back together Hawke could see Varric watching them from the corner of his eyes, a glint of warning never far behind his gaze.

"I'm fine for the first few months." The Champion of Kirkwall put up her last defense. It sounded weak even in her own ears.

"Sure. Then she's gone longer than you expected and the letters don't keep your sheets warm at night and the Blooming Rose is nothing compared to the stuff Rivaini knows how to do," Varric's smile had that comforting twist of mockery once more, "Honestly, Hawke? You've never been good at living a boring life. That's what makes you so damn fun to write about. You've chased danger every time it crossed your path and that pirate queen is just its most perfect form."

Hawke let the words in, not instinctively blocking them with arguments and excuses like they were attacks to be fought. Isabela _was_ dangerous. She moved like the sea in a hundred different moods from midnight storm to dawn's gentle caress and everything in between. Her charms were addictive, her touch overwhelming, her kiss more intoxicating than lyrium and liquor on a magical tongue.

What made her dangerous though - _truly_ terrifying in the peril of her arching, crashing, tempestuous affections– was the softness in her eyes when the smoldering flames finally faded and left her naked in Hawke's arms. The elusive captain had fought and fled and ultimately fallen. She loved Hawke. The shattering, awakening, bend the universe to its will, kind of love. It made Hawke feel immortal. It crippled her in defenselessness. Worst of all, it ripped part of her soul out of her body and carried it away every time the pirate sailed into the horizon. She always knew it would come back to her, that Isabela would return and make her whole. But the void left behind demanded to be filled and there simply wasn't enough alcohol or violence in all of Kirkwall to match the power of the Queen of the Eastern Seas.

"It's possible," Hawke tested each word for meaning before it crossed her lips, "That when she's gone too long I start to crave a little more excitement. It's a terrible thing to wake up for so many mornings without any fresh wounds."

"There's a big difference between scratches and a black eye, you randy nug," Varric laughed; a low, rumbling roar that echoed off the cave and made the water ripple. His hand left her shoulder, returning the playful punch she'd given him earlier. At least her armor would save her from a bruise. The affectionate gesture was a truce, permission to escape the awkward intensity of emotions she didn't want to think about and pain she had been trying to ignore. A grateful sigh shed the tension from her shoulders and Hawke happily joined her friend's laughter.

"Not with Bela. Don't you remember the Comte de Launcet's dinner party? Anders had _just_ reset my nose." She could easily recall more than a dozen times when her beloved had proven far more dangerous than daily life as city champion.

"And you had two black eyes! I thought Dulci was going to chew through her own tongue! That story you made up about getting kicked in the face by a wyvern was shit, by the way." Varric cackled, delight suffusing his entire face as he recalled the noblewoman's tortured disbelief.

"I had to think fast! I was still trying to figure out exactly what I did that made her –," Hawke barely stopped herself, a rush of blood coloring her cheeks as she caught the memory before it slipped out, "She apologized later. Very thoroughly."

"I'll bet she did. Come on, Champ. Let's find a way out of here and you can tell me all about Rivaini's apologies and the hazards of reverse dragon-rider positioning." Varric waded into the lapping tide before tossing her a grin over his shoulder.

"She told you?! Damn it, Isabela." Hawke groaned, following without any further protest.

. . .

* * *

"So then Sera finally pops out from under the table -half naked and entirely drunk– and announces that she knew all along Lady Pentaghast was going to end up in bed with the Inquisitor because apparently 'she is way too into swords that one, no ways a woman polishes her hunk of metal all day unless she's thinking about sticking someone,'" Varric's pinched, nasal impersonation of the blonde elf was surprisingly accurate, "It might be the only time I've seen the Seeker completely speechless. She went redder than a melting kettle; even made a bit of the same sound! Blackwall choked on his ale, Bull's laughing, Cole starts asking questions quicker than he can figure out words and in the middle of it all there's the Inquisitor, trying desperately not to grin like a cat with canary feathers in her teeth."

Hawke's laughter echoed off the tunnel walls in every direction, racing ahead and bouncing behind them until it sounded like an entire army of an audience, all delighted. It felt like they'd been wandering for hours in this maze of tunnels under the Wounded Coast, stunned to find so many passages existed without the entire shore having caved in on itself. There was a minimal diffuse light, bleeding in and turning the darkness into disorienting shadows that wreaked havoc with their eyes. The only thing that never changed was the breeze. A cold wind whispered through the caverns, tickling their faces and Hawke knew that so long as they followed the air, they'd find an exit. Follow the wind, that was what Isabela was always saying, wasn't it?

"Wait." Hawke froze, grabbing Varric's shoulder to still his motion. The water was knee deep, churned by their footsteps but now it gradually settled back into its gentle, rhythmic flow. And now she could clearly hear splashing from another direction. The noise reached her along the same drifting air that brought the scent of brine and seagulls. There was a militant force behind the wet crashes; feet that refused to be deterred by anything so pitiful as an ocean.

"You said Aveline wasn't going to come looking for us, didn't you?" Hawke instinctively reached for her daggers. They'd need a lot of polishing after today. Salt water did terrible things to metal. For now they slid free with a sucking resistance, almost sulking in their sodden sheaths.

"Not unless Bianca washed up in the harbor with blood stains and a broken bow. Or words to that effect. We might have been arguing at that point." Varric nodded, easing the beloved weapon off his back and caressing the trigger.

"Charming. It's so nice when city leaders get along." She wanted to stay focused on the direction of the noise but her eyes insisted on rolling heavenward for at least a second. As the Champion of Kirkwall she'd had to sit in on a number of official conversations between the Viscount and Captain of the Guard. They usually devolved into threats, bribery and blackmail and that was just Hawke trying to get out of the room.

"She's sneaking Bran extra stuff to nag me about. I'm sure of it. I haven't seen her name on a single report but there have been eighteen complaints that used the word 'inappropriate' like it was some kind of blasphemy." The dwarf was muttering to himself as much as complaining to her.

"For Aveline it is. Along with 'undisciplined' and 'shameless.' Her lectures have done wonders for my vocabulary. I had to look up three words from her last rant about Isabela," Hawke quietly confirmed, dropping her voice to the tactical whispers they fell into before battle.

"Ha! Pretty sure she's always on the lookout for new ways to describe Rivaini. 'Whorish whoring whore' wasn't her wittiest moment." Varric was trying to be quiet as well but his spontaneous bark of humor carried away from them, overwhelming any other approaching sound. Hawke sighed, adjusting the grip of her daggers and waiting for any indication that danger was still coming their way. She was already sore, wet and tired; their attacker could at least show the courtesy of being prompt.

Silence met them for an unusually long second before a low, melodic purr like the prelude to laughter drifted hauntingly up the tunnel. Hawke froze, heart suddenly hammering loud in her ears. How hard had she hit her head on the way down here? The splashing resumed but at a more languid speed, slipping through the water instead of carving a path. That wasn't how mercenaries or soldiers moved. Predators, perhaps, but of a very different kind.

"To be fair," the rich voice emerged from shadows long before a vague silhouette began to take shape, "She was already beginning to turn purple by then and it took quite a lot of discipline to use any words at all. I rather thought she was going to leave her opinion in bruises."

"Isabela." Hawke started to rush for the apparition but the slippery cavern floor defied her footing. Water sucked at her balance and she flailed, barely keeping hold of her daggers as she fought the insistent pull of the tide. A set of deft hands instantly caught her, easily avoiding the waver of her blades and gliding effortlessly into the Champion's space to steady her. The familiar grip against the buckles of her armor mingled with the scent of spice. Isabela always smelled like the ocean but here in the caverns, where saltwater filled every particle of air, Hawke sought the notes of cedar and cardamom that were only her pirate queen.

"Hawke." The sailor mirrored her greeting with less astonishment and more satisfaction. She might as well have been a demon summoned from beyond the Veil by mention of her name, wrapping enchantment around the Champion without even using words.

"You've got some seriously suspicious timing, Rivaini." Varric's voice broke into the spell of Isabela's eyes consuming Hawke, unable to drag their attention away from each other but just distracting enough to demand words.

"I was watching the coast line. Terrible rocks around here, I'd hate to lose another ship," the raven-haired pirate's reply was offered like happenstance, "Imagine my surprise on spying a horde of Raiders engaging in a massacre along the beach. It doesn't take too much imagination to know who would be at the heart of that kind of trouble."

"You were watching?" Hawke grabbed hold of the first, seemingly least important, fact. Isabela mentioned it so casually, as though it were a simple coincidence that meant nothing deeper. She could cock her brow and offer a smirk to conceal the truth but she couldn't shield her eyes. The flicker of emotion, the small crease in her brow when survival reflexes begged to look away; it was as telling as hours of confession. Isabela had been looking for her. Hawke had told her -one night lost between dreamy reality and sleepy bliss- about the boulder, about sitting on the coast and searching the horizon for signs of her return and feeling utterly foolish but a little less alone so long as she could see to the edge of the world.

"Sweet thing, I always watch." Isabela's dulcet reply accompanied fingers gently brushing against her cheek, savoring the warmth and shape, the way Hawke leaned into the caress. Surprisingly, Varric didn't interrupt again. Not even when she could practically hear his tongue vibrating with unspoken questions. Insufferably nosy about every intimate detail of her life, he still had the grace to not interfere in these rare moments. But she was damned sure that he was taking notes as he watched.

"How'd you know where to find us?" Hawke unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, clearing her throat of all the words that needed to be saved for later.

"My life depended on finding that book after my ship wrecked, remember? I've scoured every inch of this blighted coast and everything underneath. When you and Varric disappeared from the middle of the fight it wasn't all that hard to figure out." Isabela's honeyed words turned into a chuckle and it rolled over Hawke, melting her that much more into the warmth of the pirate's arms.

Seeking that comfort was what finally dragged the Champion's attention to the feel of the skin beneath her hands. Warm, yes, but covered in goosebumps and a million droplets of water like constellations in the night sky. Her fingers were clinging to wet fabric, wrinkling the nearly transparent white cloth in her grip.

"Bela," Hawke leaned back to take in the sight of her lover, fully processing all the facts, "Did you jump overboard to come find us?"

"I wasn't about to turn the ship towards this damned coastline. Kirkwall was already in sight and there weren't any storms or Qunari for miles. Brand is capable of putting into harbor without me holding his balls this time." Isabela shrugged one shoulder, tossing her head to flip the wet hair away from her eyes. She hadn't let go of Hawke from the second she got hold of her.

"Rivaini, that really didn't answer her question," Varric teased, noting the sailor's defiant posture. She could be so defensive about admitting emotion, even when it saturated her every twitch.

"You did," Hawke's jaw dropped, amazed to see the truth behind Isabela's pride, "You jumped ship to come after us!"

"Shit, I would've loved to have seen that. The Queen of the Eastern seas dives off the railing and slices into churning water, slipping effortlessly through the pounding waves to save her Champion . . ." The storyteller was already getting lost in his own creation.

"Stuff it, Varric," Isabela suggested sweetly, the flash of teeth in her smile a friendly warning.

"Thank you." Hawke let out a slow breath, too deliberate for a sigh but soft at the edges.

"Like that, did you? I can tell him to shut up as often as you want." The sailor's mouth curled up on one side, smug amusement happily rising along her lips.

"No," Hawke shook her head, one hand finding its way to Isabela's hair to pull her a fraction closer, "Thank you. For coming for us. For coming back. For –Maker, Bela! For being _you._ "

Whatever games and flirtations Isabela had in mind until that moment vanished from her face, destroyed by the gentle assault of sincerity. The raw emotion pouring out of Hawke's lips gathered them both in a sudden, harsh embrace, urgency and heartache mingling with tenderness and relief. The taste of salt and ocean laced between their mouths and Hawke's lips still stung with cuts but she couldn't care enough to draw away, not when the warmth of Isabela's kiss was like balm to everything she touched.

The only breath left in her lungs was their trade of sighs and the world started spinning no matter how tightly she clung to the body against her. Hawke choked back her own groan of complaint when she had to break away, had to breathe again. Her only comfort was in feeling the pirate's own need for air, parted lips dragging uneven gasps against her cheek. Not even Isabela could hold her breath when they kissed.

"Shit, Rivaini. I couldn't get a thank you out of her and I saved her from a pack of Raiders!" The growl of complaint from nearby balanced between sarcasm and affection, teasing as always but delighted to see real happiness enfolding his friends.

"Varric, you sweet thing, that's adorable. But Hawke has never needed saving from anyone but herself." Isabela shook her head as she corrected him, eyes glittering with the same amusement that danced in her words. The satisfaction that drifted across her smile filled in everything she'd left unspoken and Hawke silently agreed as she leaned in to capture those tempting lips once again. If she ever needed saving, it was only from herself. And Isabela was the only one who could do that.

**Author's Note:**

> This post will be where I can drop ideas that claw out of my head without any real theme or continuity. As such, thoughts are always welcome and suggestions/requests as well.


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